


Light at the end of the tunnel

by Lesatha



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 1890s, Alive Hale Family, Alpha Derek, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Feral Derek, Happy Ending, M/M, Major Illness, Miner Stiles, Protective Derek, Protective Stiles, Sterek Week 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 18:43:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8412502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lesatha/pseuds/Lesatha
Summary: “Careful, Stilinski. Don’t think you can go around telling me what to do, or coddling the werewolf.”“What does it matter to you?”“If the feral alpha kills you, it will be my fault, as your supervisor.”Stiles’ head whipped towards the werewolf. He couldn’t see much of him apart from his red eyes, always following Stiles. Crazy as it might sound, it comforted him. The werewolf wasn’t the rabid animal Elis seemed to picture. He was just… hurt.





	

They brought the werewolf to the tunnel Stiles worked in three days after the full moon. He was busy digging through the ocher, blinking as red dust fell over his face, when he heard a commotion.

 

A werewolf. Stiles didn’t understand at the beginning. With the dim lighting, all he saw was the supervisor, Elis, chaining a dark-haired man to one of the wagons they used to carry the ocher out of the mine. But that fact alone roused Stiles’ suspicion. Once the unknown man turned around, Stiles found himself staring into glowing red eyes. Alpha eyes belonging to a half-shifted werewolf.

 

“Why is he here?” Stiles whispered to the miner next to him, unable to look away from the werewolf.

 

“Seems like he killed a hunter working for the Argents. You know how this ends.”

 

Sadly, Stiles knew. Any werewolf killing a human had to serve a forced labor sentence, which length varied but always spread over many years. If the Argents were involved –and they were, since they also owned the mine– this werewolf wasn’t leaving any time soon. In fact, Stiles was curious to find out how that hunter got killed, considering the Argents weren’t above using illegal ways to get more employees.

 

“Why a feral wolf, though?” Stiles asked. “It’s risky.”

 

The miner shrugged.

 

“Why not? He only has to pull this wagon all day long. Nothing complicated.”

 

“But why is he feral?”

 

“I don’t know, Stilinski. Ask him yourself.”

 

Stiles was tempted to do so, except he cared for all his body parts, even those he didn’t like much. So approaching a feral werewolf? No, not for him. Besides, Elis already barked at the miners to go back to work. Stiles spun on his heels, intending to disappear into his tunnel before the supervisor noticed him. He hadn’t taken two steps that a firm hand circled his arm.

 

“Not so fast, Stilinski.”

 

Scratching the stubble covering his jaw, Stiles turned back to Elis, ready for a lecture on some imaginary mistake he had made, or whatever nonsense the supervisor loved pouring over him every day.

 

“Yes, sir?”

 

The supervisor stared at him in a way that made Stiles want to cover himself, although he was fully clothed. He jerked his arm out of the man’s grip.

 

“I noticed your pickaxe began to wear out. Go take a new one.”

 

Stiles obeyed –he would obey to anything keeping him far from this man. On his way, he passed right in front of the werewolf, who sat on the ground with his back against the wagon, heavy chains around his wrists, shoulders and waist. Stiles paused and hesitantly raised his hand in what he hoped looked like a welcoming gesture.

 

“Uh… hello. I’m…”

 

A deep growl cut him off, as well as the sight of fangs.

 

“Okay, okay, I’m leaving.”

 

Stiles scurried away, determined to stay away from the werewolf from now on.

 

***

 

Everything was dark now. First blood, then pain and death. And pain again. Now dark. But his wolf kept him safe, helped to manage the pain. It had bristled at the sight of the vaulted tunnels carved into the cliff. Too dark, too much noise. Too much humans.

 

The chains hurt. His wolf smelt the wolfsbane on them. It was cold in the tunnels, except where his skin burnt.

 

His wolf bristled again when the little human got too close. He didn’t seem threatening –he ran away like a rabbit– but his wolf didn’t trust any human. His wolf kept him safe.

 

 

***

 

Although he had sworn he wouldn’t go near the werewolf again, Stiles felt drawn to him. Maybe because the man was all alone in a cold mine, perhaps accused of an act he hadn’t committed. Stiles had no proof, of course, and was careful to keep his opinion to himself. Miners talked and if Elis heard of it, he would run to inform the Argents. Stiles knew what would happen then: no more work, no more money to help his crippled father. He had been unable to work since one of his legs got crushed in a mining accident and it wasn’t about to change. Therefore, he shut his mouth, for once. But he still believed that most –if not all– of the werewolves brought to the mine, and there had been several of them since Stiles began here, had been trapped by the Argents somehow.

 

Anyway, nothing prevented Stiles from at least talking to the alpha –except common sense. He chose lunchtime for his first real approach. After taking a plate the supervisors distributed to the miners, Stiles headed for the wagon where the werewolf was constantly chained. Stiles’ nose scrunched in disgust each time he saw the wounds the werewolf suffered because of the wolfsbane. Scabs, redness, burns. Stiles yearned to take his pickaxe and break the damn chains. He glanced over his shoulder, towards the miners gathered around a few oil lamps. Not too many witnesses. Stiles turned back to the werewolf and carefully walked in his field of view, trying to keep a safe distance and a casual stance. The werewolf looked up from his own plate, red eyes following Stiles’ movement as he sat down.

 

“Hi, uh… werewolf. Sorry, I don’t know your name.”

 

The werewolf’s light growl wasn’t the most encouraging sound, but it didn’t seem too aggressive either.

 

“I’m Stiles.”

 

The werewolf didn’t react and Stiles didn’t know what else to say. How was your day? What are you going to do after work? Perfect questions. Stiles shook his head and focused on his plate. First, he would have to accustom the werewolf to his presence. Talking would come later.

 

As Stiles ate the tasteless mix of potatoes and meager meat in his plate, he noticed the periodical glances the werewolf cast his way. Easy to track red eyes in a tunnel. Stiles also noticed the werewolf didn’t eat. The miner knelt up and craned his neck, dangerously leaning aside to see the content of the plate without moving closer. The werewolf curled his upper lip, revealing his fangs, but Stiles was too focused on the food to see it.

 

“It’s bad, isn’t it? Well, I shouldn’t criticize, I don’t have enough money for better products.” Stiles snickered. “I would if I wasn’t underpaid though.” He bit the inside of his cheek. “Uh, sorry. You didn’t even choose to be here. So, what did they give you? Ew, more bone than meat. The potatoes don’t look… they don’t look like potatoes. Here, take mine.”

 

There wasn’t much left in his plate, but it would still taste better than what the werewolf had. Stiles would have to remember to bring him food more often if this didn’t change. He pushed the plate towards the werewolf, hoping the chains were long enough for him to reach it. When he didn’t react, Stiles leant forward and pushed the plate again. This was the closest they had ever been.

 

“No sudden moves, okay? No ripping my head off. I break faster than ocher.”

 

As if to prove his words, a harsh cough shook Stiles’ chest. He threw his sleeve in front of his mouth in an attempt to muffle the sound. It echoed deafeningly in the tunnel. After his body stopped trying to expel his lungs, Stiles gave the werewolf an apologetic look.

 

“Sorry, not contagious. Food is safe.” Stiles fell on his butt and shuffled backwards until he could rest his back against the wall, chuckling at his own silliness. “I forgot. You’re immune anyway.”

 

The werewolf tilted his head. For the first time, Stiles spotted curiosity glinting in his eyes instead of –understandable– defensiveness. He marked it as progress.

 

 

***

 

The little human never stopped talking. But he had a smooth voice and never yelled and stayed at a good distance. His wolf was still wary, even after the human offered his own food. It didn’t smell of poison nor wolfsbane and it satisfied his wolf, but it wasn’t enough for trust.

 

The human’s smell, however… it intrigued his wolf. He smelled of illness. And he almost collapsed on the floor when he coughed. His wolf relaxed. The little human –Stiles– definitely wasn’t a threat. He was dying.

 

 

***

 

Stiles waited eagerly for each lunchbreak. He always did, in fact, but for another reason. Before the werewolf arrived in his section of the mine, during these short autumn days it was the only opportunity he had to get out and see the sun. But now, the idea of spending time with the werewolf made him count the hours until lunchtime. Stiles wasn’t sure the werewolf enjoyed these moments as much as he did. However, since he hadn’t attempted to bite Stiles’ head off and didn’t show his fangs anymore, he tolerated him at least.

 

Today, Stiles wanted to try something. He had investigated for several days, pestered many of his coworkers and caught Elis’ attention more than he liked, but he may have found what he looked for. A name and a story.

 

Stiles begged the cook to fill his plate with just one or two potatoes more than usual, and thanks to a timely bout of coughing and watery eyes, he got them. For once, Stiles didn’t resent his burning lungs. He darted between the miners and towards the werewolf, in a parallel tunnel. Red eyes turned to him as soon as Stiles appeared in the practically empty tunnel. His breath still caught in his throat whenever that happened, but Stiles prided himself on not getting goose bumps anymore.

 

He smiled at the werewolf and sagged on the ground faster than intended, groaning as he hit his butt a little too hard. The werewolf let out a huff that _could_ sound amused in some remote way –or maybe not so remote, but Stiles wasn’t an expert on alpha werewolves’ sounds.

 

“Always happy to distract you,” Stiles said dryly. The werewolf blinked at him, managing to look hurt with his shifted face. Stiles couldn’t keep up his offended façade anymore. “Just joking. Come on, give me your plate.”

 

The werewolf stared at Stiles’ extended hand, then handed his plate full of bad-smelling food.

 

“Ew. Assholes,” Stiles muttered as he pushed the smelly mixture aside and dumped half of his plate into the werewolf’s.

 

Giving up half of his meal wasn’t easy every day, but when he thought that maybe the werewolf got disgusting food in the evening, or nothing at all, he felt it was the right thing to do.

 

“You know,” Stiles said around a mouthful of potatoes, “I did some digging –and not in the tunnels for once, like not _literally_ …”

 

He raised his eyebrows at the werewolf, who looked at him expectantly.

 

“It was supposed to be a joke,” the miner sighed. “Yeah, anyway, I asked around and I think…” He leant forward, setting his plate aside. “Are you Derek? Derek Hale?”

 

A growl answered him, low and wounded. The werewolf’s red eyes glinted fiercely.

 

“So you are Derek, aren’t you? They told me one of your betas attacked a hunter and you stepped in, then killed the man.”

 

Derek’s growl intensified. Stiles swallowed, closed his eyes for a second –praying these weren’t his last words– and shuffled forward, just a few inches.

 

“You didn’t kill the hunter, right? I don’t know, I… yeah, you look bloodthirsty at first, and scary, but I don’t feel like you would… I don’t know.”

 

They stared into each other’s eyes. Stiles wished he could see Derek’s face, wondered what his eyes looked like when he wasn’t shifted. It occurred to him the werewolf had never really seen Stiles’ face either: during work, he always had a thick layer of red dust over his skin. Painful coughing interrupted his musings, and Stiles swore as he hunched over his knees, pressing one hand on the ground to support himself and the other under his throat.

 

“Damn it,” he rasped.

 

Breathing became such a necessity that Stiles forgot about the werewolf next to him and stayed curled on the ground as he panted, eyes closed. An immense weariness settled over him, physical and psychological. If only he could stay like this until the end of the day, the rock pressing against his body and cooling his skin. Stiles cleared his throat, raised his head and almost fell on his side when he noticed Derek’s face –and large, muscled body– very close to him. The only reason he didn’t squeak was because the werewolf glanced from Stiles’ face to his chest, a hand hovering above his shoulder, both hesitant and… protective, if Stiles dared saying that. His lips curled up, despite the pain.

 

“I’m fine, thank–”

 

“Stilinski! You, back off!”

 

Stiles looked up to see Elis stride towards them, finger pointed at Derek. The supervisor was on them before Stiles could stand up. Derek roared, moving closer to Stiles, and Elis yanked the chains to drag him back to the wagon.

 

“Move, Stilinski!” he barked.

 

“Stop, stop it, I’m fine!”

 

Stiles pushed himself on his feet, not too fast to avoid dizziness, and stepped between Elis and Derek, placing one hand on a chain.

 

“He wasn’t doing anything,” Stiles spat, struggling to contain the insults on the tip of his tongue.

 

“And what were _you_ doing?”

 

“What I always do. Talking.”

 

Elis’ eyes narrowed and the iron grip he had on the chains moved to Stiles’ wrist. Stiles heard Derek move behind him and he hoped that if the werewolf decided to lunge at someone –preferably Elis– he wouldn’t tear some parts of Stiles off in the process. Still, it would be better than killing the supervisor, which would mean death for the werewolf too. Elis put an end to the nightmarish scenarios popping in Stiles’ mind by leading him further in the tunnel.

 

“If you think I didn’t see you giving your food to this dog, you’re wrong.”

 

“Don’t call him that,” Stiles hissed.

 

Elis stopped dead in his tracks. His hand tightened so much on Stiles’ wrist that the young man wondered if his blood still reached his fingers.

 

“Careful, Stilinski. Don’t think you can go around telling me what to do, or coddling the werewolf.”

 

“What does it matter to you?”

 

“If the feral alpha kills you, it will be my fault, as your supervisor.”

 

Stiles’ head whipped towards the werewolf. He couldn’t see much of him apart from his red eyes, always following Stiles. Crazy as it might sound, it comforted him. The werewolf wasn’t the rabid animal Elis seemed to picture. He was just… hurt.

 

“He wouldn’t harm me,” Stiles said, more to himself than to the supervisor.

 

The man grabbed his chin, forcing Stiles to look back at him.

 

“If I tell you to stay away, you will. It’s an order.”

 

Then Stiles would obey. As long as the supervisor was around.

 

 

***

 

His wolf didn’t like hearing it. Derek. He was Derek. Derek didn’t kill anyone. That’s what the little human thought. It appeased his wolf and made something click inside Derek. He didn’t kill the hunter. But the hunter, he… His wolf growled. Don’t think of hunters. Derek complied –it didn’t bring anything good to think of them. Better to think of how to escape the chains.

 

But with Stiles around, it was hard to think about anything. His voice was a nice reprieve from the never-ending knocking of the pickaxes. He didn’t stink of fear like the others. If he wasn’t afraid, he wouldn’t lash out at Derek. And Derek knew he wasn’t afraid, not only because of his smell. It was in his eyes. His wolf liked Stiles’ eyes. They meant softness. And pain too. They filled with pain a second before the little human started coughing. Again.

 

This time scared Derek more than the previous ones. Even his wolf wanted to get closer and scent the human. Pain. Derek could take his pain. His hand stilled above Stiles’ shoulder. No. Touching was dangerous. Each time he had touched a human, it had been painful. His wolf wanted to howl at the memories. Yet Derek had to try.

 

He didn’t get this opportunity. The human’s heart missed a beat when he saw Derek’s hand. Maybe it was the claws, but Derek couldn’t do anything about it. He wished he could. He didn’t want to make the human scream, and he seemed about to do so. Except Stiles didn’t. He did that weird thing with his arms swinging everywhere, moving like a fish out of water. It never failed to entertain his wolf.

 

Then he smiled at Derek. When others smiled, all he saw was them showing their teeth. Constantly challenging him, ready to jump at his throat. Not with Stiles. With Stiles it was reassuring and soft. The very opposite of this other human, who always frowned and squared his shoulders, yelled and mocked. He touched and pulled Stiles like a brutal alpha attempting to subdue a beta.

 

Derek didn’t like him. Stiles’ scent turned sour when the older human prowled near him. Derek wanted to rip the man’s throat.

 

 

***

 

“Stiles. It’s been a long time. Please, come in. Are you alright?”

 

Stiles nodded at Deaton, the miners’ local physician.

 

“I’m doing okay. I need my dad’s medicine.”

 

“Of course, of course. Please, sit.”

 

“No, I’m ok–”

 

A single glance from Deaton interrupted him. Stiles had hoped this would be quick: taking the medicine, questioning him about a few things, then run away. Stiles sat down in the offered chair. It wouldn’t be so easy.

 

“Last time I visited you and your father, you were coughing.”

 

“Yeah, happens to all the miners, with the dust, you know–”

 

“A lot. You coughed a lot for someone who spent four years in the mine,” Deaton said. “You look tired. You’re pale.”

 

Stiles laughed it off, shrugging. It sounded hollow in the physician’s silent office.

 

“Well, I spend my life in _tunnels_ , so yes, I’m a little on the pallid side. Nothing to worry about.”

 

“Is your cough chronic?”

 

“Yes. Look, either it’s a sore throat, or just like some other miners. Silicosis. And then, well, we both know there’s no real cure.”

 

“Silicosis happens after a long time in the mines. In your case, it could be worse. Stiles, I would feel better if you let me examine you.”

 

“Yeah, but... I wouldn’t? Please, I just want the medicine for my dad’s leg and… there’s someone who needs your help more than I do.”

 

“Who?”

 

Stiles cringed internally, preparing himself for refusal.

 

“A werewolf? I know the Argents sometimes request your services regarding the werewolves they…” Stiles couldn’t help scrunching up his nose. “Uh, employ.”

 

To his relief, the physician nodded, folding his hands in front of him.

 

“What is wrong with that werewolf?”

 

Stiles gestured at his own shoulders and chest.

 

“Wolfsbane burns. He’s feral, so they keep him chained all day… maybe at night too, I don’t know.”

 

“I don’t have anything that will heal him if they never remove–”

 

Stiles’ heart hammered in his chest.

 

“But don’t you have something to soothe him?” he blurted. “I will pay, if that’s the problem.”

 

Deaton held his palms up as he smiled. He grabbed the stethoscope lying on his desk and walked towards Stiles.

 

“Patience. I have some creams that could help. And if you allow me to examine you, you will have them for free.”

 

Stiles chuckled, then realized the physician’s expression was as serious as ever.

 

“This sounds like… well, like something that would never happen to me,” Stiles pointed out. “Why would you do this?”

 

“Perhaps I don’t agree with the way Argent Industries treats werewolves. Therefore if a kind soul is willing to help, I’ll do my best to help them too.”

 

Stiles pursed his lips, eyed the stethoscope and looked up at Deaton. He had no reason to say no. He already had a pretty good idea of what Deaton would diagnose him with. Stiles started unbuttoning his shirt.

 

“Wait,” he said, pausing midway. “If it’s bad news, you won’t tell my dad? Right?”

 

“Promise.”

 

 

***

 

Derek didn’t see Stiles for days. Two, maybe three? It was hard to tell, his wolf didn’t care about keeping track of time. Actually, he _saw_ Stiles working, heard his coughs echo in the tunnels. Stiles always met his eyes when they were near. But they didn’t eat together anymore. Derek knew it was because of the other human. Stiles had slipped him some food the previous day, then trotted away with a sad look.

 

Stiles. Derek tried to say his name sometimes, muttering it when he was alone. But talking took him too far from the safety of his wolf and too close to his human side.

 

Derek raised his head at the sound of rushed footsteps. The tunnel was empty. He hadn’t noticed when the miners left. He never noticed them much anyway. He instantly recognized the figure moving towards him. Stiles skidded to a stop in front of him, the biggest smile ever on his face.

 

“Man, Elis has been glued to my ass all day, every day,” Stiles said as he crouched down, panting a bit. Derek considered him for a second, then lowered himself into a sitting position. “I don’t know how much time we have. There’s a problem in one of the tunnels. We have an inspector visiting right now, and…” Stiles paused to catch his breath. “He says one of the tunnels we’re digging is too high –too dangerous. You should see Elis’ face.”

 

Stiles gave him a wicked grin.

 

“I have something for you.”

 

He took a small jar out of his pocket and opened it, raising it between them so that Derek could smell the cream inside. He did, casting the young man skeptical glances. His wolf shivered with disgust.

 

“I got it from a physician,” Stiles explained. “It’s burnt wolfsbane and… other stuff. Plants. It’s supposed to help you.”

 

Derek’s pack sometimes used burnt wolfsbane to heal their wounds after bad encounters with hunters. He blinked at the human in front of him, who dipped a finger into the cream and smelled it, too focused to notice Derek’s stare. So he took the time to look for a special remedy? If Derek weren’t in alpha form, he would frown. His wolf quivered, for once happy to decipher human behavior. Packmates, it yipped at Derek. Bonding.

 

Bonding. The most frightening part might be that Derek believed it. He didn’t want to, though. He didn’t want to trust a human, or anyone. But he began to. So far, Stiles hadn’t given Derek a reason to doubt him. The human pointed at Derek’s shoulders.

 

“You should apply the cream while no one’s here,” Stiles stated as he offered the jar to Derek. “You can keep it if you want, but make sure no one notices.”

 

Derek tried to put some cream on his fingers. A disappointed snarl rolled past his lips. He wouldn’t get anywhere with his claws. What could he do? He fidgeted, feeling Stiles’ embarrassed stare on him. The miner bit his nails, squirming as much as Derek.

 

“Ah… I could help. I’ll be quick. Minimal touching guaranteed.”

 

Derek’s wolf didn’t protest much, unlike what he expected. He weighed his different options and decided that if something went wrong, he always had his claws. Huffing, Derek moved to sit with one shoulder angled towards Stiles. Then he waited. Stiles swallowed.

 

Hesitant, creamy fingertips brushed Derek’s skin. Almost nothing and yet, all his muscles tensed. His wolf whined. His eyelids fluttered close. Had to remember this wasn’t an enemy. Soft eyes. Soft smile.

 

“Okay,” the little human whispered, “we’re good. It stinks but we’re good. Right, big guy?”

 

Soft voice. Derek grunted. The fingers left his skin. He opened his eyes. Had he scared the human? Apparently not. Stiles was coating his fingers with more cream, then reapplied them on Derek’s damaged skin, less hesitant this time.

 

“Was it a yes? I hope it was. You have no idea what I did to get this smelly mixture.” Stiles sighed dramatically. “Let Deaton stare at my throat from every angle, prod my chest and back with his cold instruments. Listen to his nonsense.”

 

Stiles paused, fingers forgotten on Derek’s shoulder. It felt nice, soothing. The physician knew his job. Derek tilted his head to get Stiles’ attention. The little human seemed to snap back to reality.

 

“Or maybe it wasn’t nonsense. Who cares?”

 

He shrugged and resumed his task. Who cared? Derek stared intently at Stiles, who coated the smallest scab with a generous amount of cream. He cared. He wished he could say it. His wolf knew how to do that, he could show Stiles. But Derek didn’t dare moving. What if it scared Stiles?

 

Derek stayed still and let Stiles take care of him.

 

 

***

 

Considering how little time Stiles managed to steal to spend time with Derek, the cream did wonders. As Deaton predicted, it couldn’t heal him while the chains were on, but at least his skin had stopped bleeding. On top of that, Stiles felt like the werewolf accepted this situation now. He didn’t look like he wanted to bite Stiles’ hand off anymore, and he had even leaned into his touch two days ago. Stiles always grinned when he thought about it –and he thought about it a lot– whatever he was doing. Digging, cooking for his dad, going to sleep.

 

They worked in the same tunnel this afternoon, so Stiles hoped they would have a quiet moment alone. Maybe at the end of the day, which wasn’t far. Stiles couldn’t wait. His throat hitched, sweat stuck his shirt to his back. He was tired of breathing dust. Stiles paused, an arm resting against the wall to support his weight. A glance above his shoulder told him Derek was waiting with his wagon near the shelf where the miners stored new pickaxes. Elis was nowhere to be seen.

 

“Coming back,” Stiles informed the miners near him. “I have to change my pickaxe.”

 

He wanted to run to Derek, just to gain a few seconds more. The werewolf welcomed him with a low rumble when Stiles smiled.

 

“Hey,” Stiles whispered. “How is it going?” Another growl, darker. “Yeah, I know. It sucks. Look, I’ll try to stop by later for the cream, okay?”

 

Derek nodded and Stiles stayed there, between him and the shelf, pickaxe in hand and grinning like an idiot. He always did when their communication improved. Also, he just liked smiling at Derek –it felt natural.

 

Suddenly, the werewolf’s eyes gleamed brighter, shifting towards the end of the tunnel. Stiles couldn’t hear anything, due to all the sounds around them, but he trusted Derek’s senses. He threw his pickaxe with the old ones, next to the shelf, and grabbed a new one.

 

“Stilinski. I leave for two minutes and where do I find you when I return?”

 

Elis’ voice startled him at the exact moment his fingers closed around the pickaxe. Stiles briefly closed his eyes, then turned to him.

 

“Where everyone goes to take a new pickaxe,” Stiles spat, “which happens, like, five times a day.”

 

The supervisor swooped on him, arm already outstretched to grab Stiles. The younger man stepped out of reach with a warning glare. Elis, on the other hand, didn’t escape Derek. The werewolf snarled and pulled on his chains, dragging the man back by the shoulders.

 

“No, no, Derek!” Stiles yelled.

 

Fortunately, the length of the chains didn’t allow him to inflict more damage. Unfortunately, it also meant he couldn’t avoid Elis’ fury.

 

“You will never touch me again, dog!”

 

Elis snatched a pickaxe from the shelf and Stiles’ heart jumped in his throat. He did the first thing that popped in his mind: catch the supervisor’s arm. Then, and Stiles never knew if Elis did it on purpose or only to free himself, the man’s elbow caught his jaw. It wasn’t even a hard blow, but Stiles swayed and lost his footing. His head hit the wagon and he sagged on the ground, desperately wanting to slow down his fall, yet unable to.

 

A roar erupted above him. Stiles blinked, folding an arm under his chest to try and sit up. He managed to raise his head but only saw feet moving around him. People shouted. A hand appeared in front of his face, perhaps to pull him up. Another roar, and the hand disappeared, followed by a heavy thump. Someone crouched above him, gripping his shoulder protectively.

 

“Get Stilinski!” a miner yelled.

 

“The werewolf has gone feral!”

 

“He is always feral, idiot,” Elis snapped.

 

From the sound of his voice, he stood far away. Stiles pressed a hand on his forehead. Even with his eyes closed, everything seemed to be spinning around him. Yet he had to get up before someone took a really bad decision, so he dragged his knees under his chest and tried to push upwards. The powerful hand on his shoulder kept him curled on himself, followed by a soft rumble.

 

“Derek,” Stiles mumbled, “Derek, I’m fine, I swear.”

 

Derek let out a huff in a tone evoking a ‘ _yeah, sure_ ’ for Stiles. The young man forced his eyes open and held a palm up for the miners shuffling around them. They had to go away –all their staring and muttering worsened Derek’s state.

 

“Step back,” he groaned. “He’s not gonna eat me.”

 

Of course no one moved, when did anyone follow Stiles’ advice? But Derek chose that moment to release a tremendous roar and in less than two seconds, the space around them was clear. Well, that was better than nothing, although they weren’t completely alone –Stiles could still hear muttering in dark corners. He coughed and turned on his back, as much as Derek’s grip allowed him to.

 

“Thanks for backing me up, big guy.”

 

Without thinking –in his defense, he had almost been knocked unconscious– Stiles patted Derek’s hand, then squeezed his wrist gently. And froze. This was _not_ the time for careless touching, although the werewolf tolerated it more these days. Derek’s eyes trailed down to where their skins met.

 

 

***

 

 

His wolf growled and bristled, ready to tear anyone apart, but calmed right away when Stiles’ frantic heartbeat covered all the over sounds. Derek looked down at him. Did he do something wrong? Did he accidentally hurt Stiles? He noticed the tight hand around his wrist. He had been so focused on Stiles’ voice, on keeping the others away, keeping Stiles out of _that one_ ’s reach, that he hadn’t paid attention to the soft fingers on him.

 

No, in fact, he had paid attention. It was light and reassuring, it was Stiles, not a threat. So Derek hadn’t reacted to it in the beginning, but he should have. Maybe the little human wanted him to take his hands off. A terrible thought crossed Derek’s mind. His claws. Derek’s first instinct had been to grab Stiles when the man –the man who deserved pain and blood– had hurt him. Yet he couldn’t retract his claws, so in his haste…

 

Derek unclenched his fingers, nostrils flaring as he tried to detect the slightest smell of blood. Stiles didn’t let go of him, eyes wide. Derek couldn’t see what was wrong.

 

“Derek…” Stiles whispered.

 

Stiles’ heartbeat had recovered its usual pace. His eyes… Derek didn’t know how to describe them. He looked happy, lips parted around a hesitant smile. He brought Derek’s hand closer to his face.

 

“Derek, look. Your fingers.”

 

Derek tilted his head, reluctant to look away from Stiles’ face. The little human had no reason to seem so… hopeful? Derek wasn’t sure. He didn’t know what that looked like anymore.

 

Stiles stroking his fingertips startled him. His fingertips. Derek finally looked down at his hand, which Stiles treasured between them. The human’s nails, blunt and dirty, danced over Derek’s fingertips. He had retracted his claws. He had no idea when. But at least he hadn’t hurt Stiles.

 

“That’s good, that’s really good. You’re the best, Derek.”

 

A whine escaped Derek, in echo to the praise, to his wolf’s surprise, to his human side coming back to the surface.

 

“It’s okay,” Stiles said.

 

Derek felt him tense just before Stiles’ chest shook with a dry cough. His fingers clenched around Derek’s hand.

 

“Stilinski? Are you okay?” someone called.

 

“Y-yes,” Stiles replied. He gave Derek a weary smile. “I have to go.”

 

Although Derek didn’t want him to leave, not while the _threat_ was still near, he didn’t plan on interfering with Stiles’ decision. Except as soon as the little human pushed on his elbows to sit up, the awful man stepped out of the shadows. He held a pickaxe.

 

No.

 

Derek snarled and scooped Stiles into his arms to place him between the wagon and his body. It wasn’t easy –the human wasn’t as little as Derek first believed. Stiles squeaked in protest and the tall man took another step forward. Derek bared his fangs at him while wrapping an arm around Stiles’ waist, keeping him well hidden behind the curve of his body. His claws tingled his fingertips but he didn’t let them out. They would pierce Stiles’ skin and he was the only person Derek didn’t want to rip into pieces.

 

“Derek,” Stiles protested, clinging to Derek’s shirt to avoid sliding aside. “Derek, I have to go.”

 

His chest pressed against Derek’s. Heart against heart. Derek could feel Stiles’ heartbeat through his flesh. If he really concentrated, this close he could hear Stiles’ discreet, wheezing breath. Derek wanted to do something about this. He could, but not with the man staring at them, moving closer when he thought Derek didn’t pay attention. A warning growl crept up his chest.

 

“I know, I know,” Stiles sighed against his neck, too low for the other humans to hear him. “I want to stay like this too. But they’ll think you want to hurt me, and they’ll hurt _you_.”

 

No, they wouldn’t hurt Derek. His wolf would make sure of that. Stiles didn’t have a wolf to take care of him in such a way.

 

“Big guy. Look at me.”

 

Looking at Stiles implied losing sight of the supervisor but Derek couldn’t resist his pleading tone. Even his wolf gave up, overwhelmed by the urge to comfort.

 

“Good, good. Listen, I know you don’t trust them, but you can trust me. I’ll be okay. It looked bad and scary, but I’ll be okay –and close. Just there, you’ll see me almost all the time.” Stiles’ eyes roamed over Derek’s face, desperate to convince him. Then, disconcerting as it was, he plastered a lopsided grin on his lips. “After you almost tore his arm away, Elis won’t come near me again. He’ll find other people to bother.”

 

Derek didn’t believe that for a second. The man’s angry glances always went back to Stiles.

 

“I’m going to get up, okay?”

 

Derek whimpered. Everything could go wrong the moment Stiles left the safe little spot Derek had hidden him in. Yet he couldn’t force him to stay. His arms relaxed around the young man’s waist.

 

“Hey, don’t look so sad,” Stiles whispered. “I’ll be back. You know you can’t get rid of me so easily.”

 

Stiles rose, one hand trailing on Derek’s clawless fingers. As soon as he took two steps away, miners snatched him from Derek, milling around him and checking his clothes, probably for blood stains.

 

“Stilinski, are you okay?”

 

“Did he bite you?”

 

“You’ll have a nasty bump on your forehead.”

 

“I’m fine,” Stiles groaned.

 

He managed to cast Derek one last glance before leaving with the group surrounding him. Which left Derek alone with the supervisor. He didn’t bother standing up. This man didn’t scare him. Once no one could see them, he pointed his pickaxe at the werewolf as he came closer.

 

“What is he to you, dog? You think he’s yours?”

 

Derek repressed a roar. It would only bring the miners –and Stiles– back here.

 

“He’s not,” the man added. “You can growl and bark all you want, I’ll show you.”

 

 

***

 

 

No incident for a whole week. That had to be a record. Stiles intended to improve this achievement, avoiding giving Elis any reason to go after him or Derek –especially Derek. It helped that the miners seemed to ignore on purpose what Stiles did during his spare time when the supervisor was busy elsewhere. What did they think? That Derek would break his chains and pounce on them if they ratted on Stiles? Possible, since they didn’t dare to banter with Stiles if the werewolf was close. A bit excessive, but Stiles acknowledged those alpha eyes might dampen the mood. It suited him. While the miners frightened themselves with improbable stories, Stiles spent time with Derek. Everybody won –or rather, Stiles and Derek did, but that’s what mattered.

 

Of course, the universe always found a way to get back at Stiles as soon as he started feeling good. In the most annoying ways, such as Elis standing behind the lunch table with the cook usually serving the miners’ food. What the hell? Stiles felt the supervisor’s eyes on him while he still stood far back in the line. He contemplated dashing away, but that would be stupid. He needed his meal. On the other hand, giving Elis another opportunity to boss him around was rather stupid too. Or Stiles made stuff up, like the miners.

 

He knew it wasn’t just in his head when he stopped in front of Elis, who helped the cook fill the plates. He had this superior smile Stiles despised. The young miner held his gaze, refusing to back down –whatever the trick was today. Stiles conceded defeat and broke eye contact to catch the plate the cook handed him. Elis grabbed the cook’s arm and pulled it back.

 

“Not for this one,” the supervisor explained, shaking his head regretfully. Almost convincing. “Someone who shares food with a feral werewolf –against multiple warnings– should bring their own.” Elis smiled. “Then they can do whatever they want with it.”

 

“I don’t do it anymore,” Stiles hissed.

 

The miners around and behind him either glanced at them or stopped talking. Stiles felt his cheeks burning up.

 

“And a liar, with that,” Elis sighed. “What about three days ago? Oh, you thought I had no idea?”

 

Stiles shuffled on his feet, doing his best not to glare at the miners. So someone did rat on him. Snoops.

 

“So that’s it, I don’t eat today?” Stiles asked. _Don’t provoke him_ , a little voice whispered. “Should I also stand in a corner until break is over?”

 

He couldn’t help it. The supervisor raised an eyebrow, then smirked and patted the cook’s arm.

 

“Take care of the others, I’ll deal with this.”

 

Imperious, he motioned Stiles aside with his finger. The young man’s brain screamed at him to go the opposite way, but his feet betrayed him.

 

“You can eat if you behave,” Elis whispered.

 

Given how voices carried in the tunnel, everyone heard. They both knew it.

 

“Meaning?”

 

“You’ll eat with me.”

 

“No.”

 

This time Stiles turned around. He would go to Derek, suffer through six hours of work with an empty stomach, but he wouldn’t play these games.

 

“Oh, yes. You will. Or your werewolf won’t eat either.”

 

Stiles bit the inside of his lower lip. With his face this close to Elis’, he could spit right in his eyes. A dream come true. Yet the man had leverage over him; Stiles didn’t want Derek to pay for his foolish choices. Like spitting in Elis’ face.

 

Stiles stuffed his hands in his pockets and raised his chin. For once, he wouldn’t complain about short lunchbreaks. The supervisor laughed, grabbed two plates, and headed towards the exit. Stiles’ eyes darted around. Derek was outside, he had left with a wagon full of ocher not long ago.

 

“Follow me,” Elis grunted.

 

“It’s cold outside,” Stiles protested.

 

“Less cold than the tunnels. Hurry.”

 

Stiles glared daggers at the man’s back but he did follow. He took his time, though, childish as it was. Elis stopped at the entrance of the tunnel, his muscular figure outlined by the bright autumn light.

 

“I know the way,” Stiles grunted as he walked past the supervisor, resisting the urge to shove him aside when their shoulders brushed together.

 

“Oh, I’m aware. Just making sure you stay on the _right_ way.”

 

Stiles spun on his heels and almost bumped into Elis. The sunlight, so much harsher than the lamps they had in the tunnels, forced him to squint, annihilating any hope of appearing somewhat threatening.

 

“Spare me your unsubtle innuendos,” Stiles snapped. “And give me my plate. I spend my days digging, I can hold a plate.”

 

Elis ignored him like he would ignore a child and gestured towards one of the tables sitting in the vast quarry spread out in front of them. The supervisor sat at the end of one the benches bracketing the table and patted the available space next to him.

 

“Sit.”

 

Stiles contorted to slip between the bench and the table.

 

“I…”

 

The young man looked up and forgot whatever salty remark he had ready. Derek. Derek sitting with his back to his wagon, well within earshot, staring right at them.

 

“No,” Stiles decided.

 

He squirmed to step away, but Elis caught his elbow and he froze. His grip didn’t hurt, however the man put enough strength and tension behind the gesture to make it a threat. Stiles swallowed, then finally sat down. He couldn’t help glancing at Derek every three seconds. The werewolf’s eyes were trained on his arm, reminding Stiles that Elis still hadn’t let go of him. He tried to pull his arm away, but the man didn’t get the hint.

 

“What are you doing?” Stiles asked between gritted teeth.

 

Elis leant unnecessarily close to him to answer.

 

“Experimenting. Let’s see how much control a feral wolf has.”

 

“You’re a sadist.”

 

The supervisor’s fingers tightened around his elbow, digging into his flesh. Stiles met his eyes with a tight-lipped smile.

 

“Like I said.”

 

Elis released his arm, although Stiles suspected it was more because he planned something worse than in reaction to his words. Then he pushed Stiles’ plate towards him and looked back at Derek.

 

“Do you think he appreciates the sight? Me giving you your food? I heard that for werewolves, sharing food with their close ones means a lot on a very… primal level.”

 

“Yeah, sure. Except you’ve got your concepts all mixed up.” Stiles waved his forefinger between Elis and him. “Like, you know, sharing and coercion aren’t exactly the same–”

 

When the supervisor raised his hand, Stiles thought he was going to hit him. He wasn’t the only one, if Derek’s sudden movements were any indication. But Elis smoothed his thumb over Stiles’ jaw, in a way that would be considered loving from anyone else. Here, it was nothing more than a way to raise Derek’s hackles. It worked. Stiles could swear he heard a deep growl.

 

“If he snaps and hurts someone,” Stiles hissed, “I promise you I will tell everyone how you provoked him.”

 

The supervisor laughed and gave him a pat on the cheek before tucking into his food.

 

“And who would listen to you, Stiles? You’re just a miner. No one cares about what you have to say.”

 

Stiles prayed Derek would look away and leant into Elis’ personal space –which didn’t require a lot of effort, close as they sat already.

 

“The inspector _will_ listen. He’s quite fussy when it comes to safety matters.”

 

Stiles couldn’t deny the murderous glare he received in answer frightened him. Good thing Elis couldn’t hear his racing heart.

 

“Don’t play games you can’t win, Stilinski.”

 

 _Watch me_ , Stiles wanted to reply. However, the supervisor was right, in a way. Stiles couldn’t win alone. Winning meant getting Derek out of this hell, and for that he needed Derek. A non-feral Derek able to talk and tell his side of the story to a person who would listen and have enough influence to help. Stiles needed Deaton too.

 

 

***

 

For several days, Derek only saw Stiles when the supervisor brought him near. His wolf howled, his skin burned again without Stiles’ ministrations. He wanted to bite every miner approaching him or his wagon. Tear the supervisor into small pieces to wipe the sullen look off Stiles’ face.

 

Then a stranger came. He didn’t look like a miner; wore fine clothes and had no red dust covering his skin. He talked quietly with the supervisor, who fidgeted and spat words Derek didn’t care about. After that, the man walked to Derek, calm and straightforward. His eyes studied Derek’s face, stayed on his chains for a while. He sighed, motioned the supervisor to follow him and they both left the tunnels. Derek didn’t understand. This could be very bad.

 

However, Derek glanced aside when his ears picked up the sound of a slightly wheezing breath, saw Stiles giving a single, reassuring nod, and knew he would be okay. Or at least, that Stiles would do his best for this to happen.

 

And Derek was right. The following day, a grinning Stiles appeared at lunch, plate full of steaming food. They were in a deserted tunnel, but Derek expected the supervisor to appear at any second. Stiles, on the other hand, didn’t display a single sign of worry.

 

“Hi, Der,” Stiles said as he sat cross-legged, very close to Derek. He had been doing so for some time, since the moment Derek stopped tensing at every movement he made. His wolf purred at Stiles’ spontaneity. “I think I got rid of Elis for a while,” he added in a whisper. “With the help of my physician friend.”

 

Derek cocked his head to the side.

 

“Okay, fine, maybe not _friend_. Acquaintance, if you prefer. But I swear…” Stiles paused to cough and grimaced, but he still managed to keep smiling. “He’s going to become _your_ best friend. I told him about Elis provoking you. So Deaton went on a random inspection through the mine, checking on all the werewolves.” Stiles winked. “And especially you. He’s the guy you saw yesterday. He talked to Elis and the Argents.” Another cough. “Said he had heard about trouble involving you, and that you seemed better when I was around. Seriously big guy, I never thought it would work, but everyone seems to know about… well, about us. Not that there’s so much to know about, you’re just the main gossip around here.”

 

Stiles averted his eyes and picked on his food, then offered the plate to Derek. The werewolf let out a rumble he hoped sounded like encouragement. Maybe it did, because rapid-fire words tumbled out of Stiles’ mouth again.

 

“The Argents value Deaton’s opinion, to some extent. They said that if I helped grounding you, Elis should stop his bullshit.” Stiles paused, pursing his lips. “They probably didn’t say it this way. You get the idea, though. You’re no use to them if you’re _too_ feral. So yeah, here I am. He’s going to be so mad.”

 

Stiles laughed and coughed at the same time, and rested his head against the wagon. Derek pushed the plate towards him. Even with the mere flickering lights from the lanterns, he could see the dark circles under Stiles’ eyes, worsened by his pale face.

 

“Not really hungry, big guy. Eat first.”

 

Derek pushed the plate again, but Stiles shook his head. His wolf quivered with excitement at the idea of having Stiles close whenever possible, and Derek wanted to share his happiness, yet he couldn’t, not with Stiles so tired. He swallowed, took a deep breath and ignored his wolf’s fretting at what he was about to do.

 

“St…”

 

His voice sounded so raspy Derek wasn’t sure it wasn’t a growl. Did he even remember how to form words? Stiles’ widening eyes didn’t help him decide –maybe it had been a very scary growl.

 

“S- St…” Derek repeated.

 

Stiles knelt, upper body leaning eagerly towards Derek.

 

“Yes? What, what is it?” Stiles babbled. “What do you… Stop? Is it ‘stop’? Oh no, please don’t tell me to stop talking.”

 

Derek shook his head. He wanted to be annoyed at Stiles interrupting him, but the young man’s enthusiasm, the little bouncing he managed to accomplish while on his knees, spurred Derek to persevere.

 

“Sta…”

 

“What, stab? No, no, big guy, we can’t stab Elis. Trust me, I would love that, but we can’t.”

 

Derek’s eyes glowered, although he was well aware it wouldn’t impress Stiles.

 

“Sta-i… Stiles.”

 

Now Stiles gaped and stayed speechless. Derek puffed out his chest and his wolf growled his pride.

 

“Yes, Derek?” Stiles finally whispered, blinking.

 

“Stiles.” Derek loved the roll of his name. “Eat.”

 

Stiles clasped his hands in front of his mouth and giggled, however his eyes shined brighter than usual, almost moist. With tears? Derek took a whiff of his scent and didn’t detect pain or discomfort –aside from his usual illness.

 

“Yes, alright,” Stiles replied. He laughed again, then sniffled. “I’ll eat, big guy, since you’re asking nicely.”

 

At last, he stuck his fork into a piece of meat and brought it to his mouth. He stopped, grinning at Derek and food forgotten, again.

 

“God, I can’t believe our first actual conversation is you bossing me around.”

 

Derek sighed and gently pushed the fork with two fingers towards Stiles until the food disappeared into his mouth.

 

 

***

 

 

Stiles hadn’t anticipated how giddy he would feel about Derek talking. In fact, he hadn’t thought about it at all. However, he wouldn’t have guessed it would make him dreamy to the point he would practically hit one of his coworkers’ head while digging. That’s what happened when he replayed these two little words in his head, over and over again. Stiles wanted to run to Deaton to let him know about Derek’s progress, yet on one hand it would look suspect if he met the physician too often, and on the other hand, this moment was his and Derek’s.

 

“Let’s take care of these wolfsbane burns,” Stiles declared the next day. “Okay?”

 

He hoped the werewolf would answer him –not much, just a word or two– but he merely nodded.

 

“You can talk to me again if you want. I love your voice.”

 

A slightly gruff voice, yet not as deep as Stiles pictured it. Besides, he supposed the hoarseness came both from disuse and the alpha shift.

 

Derek glanced at him, then turned his head to stare at the lantern. Stiles didn’t push him. He dipped his fingers into Deaton’s cream and spread it over Derek’s warm collarbone. The werewolf fidgeted and his eyes went back to Stiles.

 

“My… My voice.”

 

Stiles’ heart skipped a beat but he maintained a straight face. _Stay calm_ , he told himself. _Don’t overreact. Don’t make a fool of yourself_.

 

“Yes, your voice, Derek. I love it.” Stiles paused to look up at him and slowed the movements of his fingers to settle his hand on Derek’s shoulder. “I would love hearing things about yourself. Not today, just… one day, if you feel like it. Anyway, I love hearing you talk.”

 

Stiles coughed and moved to Derek’s wrist, pushing the shackle away from the reddened skin.

 

“Talk.”

 

“Yes,” Stiles agreed, squinting at Derek’s inner wrist, lightening his touch as best as possible on the thin skin.

 

“Talk,” the werewolf insisted.

 

Stiles raised his gaze and startled at how close their faces were. He was probably hallucinating, but at this distance he got a better look at Derek’s eyes and it seemed like they weren’t completely red? There was a narrow circle around the irises that seemed more blue or green…

 

“Stiles. Talk.”

 

Stiles blinked at him, then winked.

 

“You’re a bossy one, aren’t you? Fine. I’ll let you know that you might be the first person ever asking me to talk. Several times. Which makes you my favorite person in the world. But after my dad, ‘cause he’s my dad, you know? Whatever, um… so yes, talking. What could I tell you about… let me think.”

 

“You.”

 

Derek’s tone didn’t leave much room for debate.

 

“Yeah, yeah if you want. I’ll monologue about myself then, perfect. Where to start? My dad. He worked here his whole life, until he had an accident a few years ago. Now, he can’t work at all anymore. I was already working in the mine when it happened, although I didn’t…” Stiles’ voice died in his throat. Derek let out a soft whine. “Yeah, I don’t like remembering that day. I wasn’t with him when it happened. I found out at the end of the day. He could have died and no one fucking warned me.”

 

That was three years ago and it hurt just the same.

 

“Also, I’m a horrible person but… that’s the day I knew I would never get out of these tunnels. No one wants to work here, of course, and there’s isn’t much other choices in the area, but I had hope.” A sad smile stretched Stiles’ lips as he met Derek’s eyes. “I wanted to take over my mom’s work.” He chuckled, absently tracing patterns on the werewolf’s hand. “I’m sure you’re gonna laugh. She had goats. We had several of them at the house, you know, the ones with long, curly fleece? Angora goats. My mom raised them for the fleece only, so we didn’t kill them to eat or anything. Honestly, I could never kill a goat. They’re the sweetest things ever.”

 

Stiles considered Derek’s interested gaze for a while.

 

“Of course, you might disagree with me on that point, being a werewolf. So, back to my mom. She worked the fleece, made clothes or rugs out of it. She didn’t earn a lot of money, but it was good enough. Better than the mine. She taught me how to take care of them. And then she died of sickness, we sold the goats –except one, the last kid who was borne before my mom’s death– and that was it.”

 

The young man wiped his eyes before any tear rolled on his cheeks. He had never told anyone about his old dreams. His father knew about them, of course, but they didn’t broach that topic.

 

“I think you would love being into a sheepfold. It’s warm, unlike these damn tunnels. I spent hours in it when I was a kid, petting the goats. They loved that. Hey, you know what? One day I’ll get you out of here, and I’ll introduce you to Curly.”

 

The grumble vibrating through Derek’s chest sounded a lot like a chuckle.

 

“Yes, _Curly the goat_ is totally unimaginative, I’ll grant you that,” Stiles laughed. “I named that goat when I was thirteen.”

 

He stretched his arms and leant back against the wagon, hugging his arms around himself. He felt the cold quicker than usual these days.

 

“I guess that’s all. Nothing fascinating.”

 

Derek moved towards him cautiously, as if Stiles could be afraid of him. The werewolf raised a clawless finger and poked Stiles’ arm.

 

“You.”

 

“What, me? I told you everything I could think of.”

 

Derek poked his arm once more.

 

“No. About _you_.”

 

“You’re persistent, big guy. Okay, me. Uh… Let’s start with the obvious. I like goats, hate tunnels. I saw the mine once when I was little and it scared me forever. Too dark. Now, I think I would find it beautiful if I didn’t spend my life down here. What more? I’m a good cook, I think.” Stiles smiled at Derek and lowered his voice. “I have a soft spot for a certain werewolf.”

 

Derek reacted as Stiles expected him to: with a nod. But then –and Stiles didn’t expect that– he moved his hand to Stiles' chest, pressing his palm flat on it. Stiles had no idea what that could mean or what he should do. Was it a werewolf tradition or something? Was he supposed to reciprocate?

 

“Hurt,” Derek muttered.

 

“Me? No, not hurt.”

 

Derek growled and tugged on the top buttons of Stiles’ shirt. This time, Stiles got the message loud and clear, and since he didn’t have so many shirts, he hurried to unbutton it.

 

“Okay, I’ll show you I’m not hurt.”

 

Opening his shirt wasn’t exactly pleasant, in particular as the chill air hit his skin covered with dry sweat. He shivered and a small cough scraped his throat. The look Derek gave him could only be called _winning_.

 

“Hurt. Sick.”

 

“Oh, this. Yes, you could say that. Deaton would so agree with you.”

 

Stiles’ breath stuttered as Derek’s warm hand splayed over his chest, fingertips resting at the base of his throat.

 

“Stiles suffers.”

 

Stiles wanted to deny vehemently, flood Derek with arguments proving he was _fine_. Except he just had enough energy to roll his eyes.

 

“You’re dramatizing, big guy. Like Deaton. Can you believe he diagnosed me with acute silicosis? Just my luck. Stiles Stilinski, twenty-three, has the lungs of an old, retired miner. Well, no, I disagree. Bad cough, that’s all.”

 

A violent bout of coughing made him curl forward, as always when he bragged about being in good health. His body was a damn traitor. Stiles would have toppled over if it weren’t for Derek’s hand on his chest. When his coughing decreased, the young man realized the werewolf’s other hand was wrapped around his nape, gently supporting Stiles’ head as he guided it back against the cool metal of the wagon.

 

“Bad cough,” Stiles insisted. He grinned, without any real strength behind it. “But you can leave your hands here all you want, feels good.”

 

“Hurts?”

 

“Nah.”

 

If Stiles ignored his sore muscles and his burning throat, it didn’t hurt. Derek lowered his hand down Stiles’ chest.

 

“Hm. Someone’s getting eager,” Stiles joked. “I don’t mind. Oh!”

 

A strange feeling filled him, as if all his pain evaporated from his body, especially in his chest. And Derek’s hand… the veins on Derek’s hand and arm darkened, like ink spreading on a sheet.

 

“Oh god, what’s happening to you? What…”

 

Stiles tried to move away and catch Derek’s hand, but the werewolf didn’t let go. He didn’t look worried, or in pain. His eyes never left Stiles’ face. Despite his shifted face, Stiles got the impression the werewolf was frowning.

 

“Quiet,” Derek ordered. “Still hurts?”

 

“No, it doesn’t hurt, but you…” Stiles took a while to really think about it. Nothing hurt for the first time in months. He glanced at the black veins fading on Derek’s forearm. “That’s a werewolf thing, isn’t it?”

 

Derek nodded and a terrible wave of hope bloomed inside of Stiles.

 

“Is it… are you taking the disease away? Is it a cure?”

 

The werewolf’s eyes clouded with sadness –or pity, Stiles couldn’t tell– and he bowed his head. Stiles’ heart sank.

 

“No. Just pain.”

 

Stiles closed his eyes for several seconds, fighting foolish tears. He was stupid, no one could erase a disease like this. Besides, having the pain removed was already great.

 

“Thank you,” Stiles whispered.

 

He covered Derek’s hand with his own. After a while, the werewolf peeled his other hand away from Stiles’ nape and pressed his forefinger under his fangs.

 

“This is cure,” Derek declared.

 

“Your bite?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Stiles had heard about it, although he believed it was a legend. Until now. He didn’t know what to say. Was Derek offering the bite? If yes, what should Stiles decide? He had no idea what a werewolf life was like.

 

Stiles didn’t know what to say, so he pressed Derek’s palm tighter on his chest. He assumed the werewolf wasn’t taking his pain anymore, since his veins were back to normal. Stiles still felt good. He slid closer to Derek and smiled when the werewolf mimicked him.

 

 

***

 

Derek had been reluctant to touch Stiles in the beginning, mostly because he didn’t want to frighten the human. As soon as it became clear Stiles didn’t fear Derek’s contact but _sought_ it, it felt as if a wall had collapsed between them. Derek’s wolf wanted to curl around the young man, groom him, take his pain.

 

Therefore, Derek did all that. Tentatively at first. It took him a few days to act on it. He waited until Stiles crouched next to him to treat his wounds and inch by inch, leant towards him to scent his neck. Stiles didn’t tense –he always managed to hide most of his surprise– but his heartbeat quickened. Derek started to retreat, but Stiles’ calm voice stopped him.

 

“It’s okay, Derek.”

 

His wolf yipped and Derek surrendered to the instinct driving him to _scent_ , to scent all of Stiles. He trailed his nose from neck to jaw, then to the spot behind the ear. Stiles inhaled sharply and put the cream down. A part of Derek expected him to bolt away. On the contrary, he tilted his head so that his brown locks tickled Derek’s nose. The werewolf let out a contented growl and pressed his face into Stiles’ hair. Perhaps a little too fast, considering how Stiles swayed on his feet, gasping. Derek’s wolf chided him. _Control. Don’t damage the human by bonding too wildly_.

 

However, Stiles giggled and sat in a more comfortable position, blinking up at Derek. The light from the lantern reflected itself in his eyes. Now that he had scented him –at least the parts he was allowed to scent– Derek yearned to feel his skin again, like the times he took all this pain from Stiles. But better than that. When he took Stiles’ pain, Derek couldn’t stroke and comfort the little human like he wanted to. Weakened as he was because of the wolfsbane, he had to really focus to find out any lingering pain. And there was a lot of it.

 

Mindful of Stiles’ heartbeat, Derek brought his hand closer to the young man’s face. He let it linger in the air. He had already scented Stiles; maybe this was enough for one day.

 

Stiles startled him by wrapping his long fingers around his hand. Nodding once, he brought Derek’s hand to his own face and only let go of it when Derek’s fingers touched his cheekbone. The werewolf drew an imaginary line on Stiles’ cheek with his forefinger, trying to see if he could get rid of the red dust covering Stiles’ skin. No, too many layers. Derek stroked Stiles’ jaw, nails scraping through his stubble. Then brought his fingers up to Stiles’ mouth, hesitating at the corner of his lips. They looked soft, kept their natural pink color despite the red dust trying to hide it. Stiles pressed into Derek’s touch.

 

“Is it… is it bonding?” he whispered.

 

“Yes.”

 

Derek’s voice sounded rough and menacing to his own ears. He didn’t understand why Stiles liked it. He didn’t understand why Stiles’ eyes suddenly sparkled like flames in the dark of night.

 

“Can I bond too?”

 

Derek nodded without missing a beat –his wolf would have howled in frustration otherwise.

 

“Yes,” he replied. “Pack mates bond.”

 

“Pack mates…”

 

As careful as Derek had been, Stiles framed Derek’s face with his fingertips, letting them run to his nose, his chin. Up to his brows, where they paused for a second, then brushed the thick skin.

 

“Does it hurt there?” Stiles whispered.

 

His fingers shook a little.

 

“No.”

 

It was soothing. Derek should have let Stiles closer a long time ago. He belatedly realized that he had stopped moving, one hand cupping the side of Stiles’ head and the other back on his chest, basking in Stiles’ attentions.

 

He felt the coming cough a second before Stiles did, maybe because of his sharp intake of breath, or the slight twitch of his chest. Derek couldn’t do anything about it. He had to wait until it was over and do his best afterwards.

 

Stiles jerked his hands away to cover his mouth, trying to stifle the agonizing sounds. Chest heaving, he ended up with his forehead on Derek’s shoulder. The werewolf wrapped his arms around him, naturally, as if they had done this their whole life. Stiles sagged on his lap. Derek felt his tears dampen his shirt.

 

“Sorry… sorry,” Stiles gasped.

 

He clutched Derek’s waist with one hand. The werewolf whined and tried to cover as much of Stiles’ back as he could with his arms, curling above him. He breathed through his mouth –he didn’t want the thickening smell of death to hit his nose. Derek didn’t want to think about this. Stiles shivered under him, unconsciously hiding into Derek’s embrace.

 

“Stay,” the werewolf suggested.

 

Stiles craned his neck on Derek’s lap and managed to crack a weak smile.

 

“Bonding time isn’t over, then?”

 

Derek gathered Stiles’ long limbs against him, tightening his grip fiercely.

 

“No. Never.”

 

 

***

 

Stiles paused to wipe the sweat off his eyelids and gauged the vault above his head, the length from one wall to the other. He couldn’t keep ignoring the cold sweat that had been rolling down his spine for the past hour.

 

“Hey!” he shouted to cover the sounds of pickaxes hitting the rock.

 

His two coworkers stopped, one of them raising his eyebrows.

 

“What is it, Stilinski?”

 

Stiles pointed at the walls.

 

“We’re not within the standard width anymore.”

 

“Orders,” the oldest miner replied. “Now, go back to work before…” He glanced past Stiles’ shoulder then hissed, “Just go back to work.”

 

“What’s going on here?” Elis asked behind them.

 

A single stare from the other miners told Stiles he would be the one explaining. Only fair –he brought it on himself, after all. He cleared his throat and faced the supervisor.

 

“Tunnel is too large, sir.”

 

Elis eyed him up and down, crossing his arms.

 

“Says who?”

 

“Well, generally speaking, the rules. In a more specific context, me,” Stiles replied, shrugging.

 

“Ah, you, always _you_.”

 

The two miners dug faster, probably intent on letting Elis know they weren’t listening. Stiles snorted.

 

“Since when do you care about rules, Stilinski?”

 

“Since they were designed to keep me alive. My father worked in a too-high tunnel. We both know how it ended.”

 

“That was in another part of the mine, less stable. The ground is better here, and the ocher of excellent quality. We’re good.”

 

Stiles wanted to scream at him. He swallowed his anger and gave him a curt nod.

 

“That’s your call, sir.”

 

“Yes, it is. Oh, no,” he added as Stiles started turning around. “I’ll send someone to replace you for now. Your werewolf is restless, doesn’t want to pull his wagon. Go see what’s wrong with him.”

 

Stiles had the hardest time keeping from running to Derek. He hadn’t heard any commotion, no shouts or unusual sounds. Derek wasn’t far last time he had checked, so Stiles would have noticed, he knew that.

 

As he thought that this could be Elis playing some sort of trick on him, he spotted the werewolf and got confirmation that no, it wasn’t a trick. Derek paced in front of his wagon, snarling and pulling on his chains, muscles bulging. Stiles’ heart clenched. What if Derek had reverted to his fully feral state? Then what? Several weeks of progress and bonding –Stiles loved that more than he should– for nothing?

 

“Derek.”

 

The werewolf’s head whipped towards him. In his agitation, he had been glancing everywhere except at Stiles, which told a lot about his anxiousness. But there wasn’t a hint of surprise in his red eyes when he met Stiles’ gaze, just relief. So he was aware of Stiles’ presence and maybe looking for something –or someone– else.

 

“What’s wrong, big g–”

 

Derek’s arm caught him in a crushing embrace, his face immediately diving to Stiles’ neck, heavy pants brushing his skin. He growled and snarled around half-formed words.

 

“What happened, Derek?”

 

“Wrong, Stiles smelled wrong.”

 

“I showered yesterday, big guy,” Stiles teased but Derek clearly wasn’t in a joking mood.

 

“Fear.”

 

Nose pressed to Stiles’ jugular, the werewolf took a deep breath. Which didn’t satisfy him, since he lowered his body into a crouch, pulling Stiles down with him, arms tight around his shoulders.

 

“Fear? You’re being cryptic, Derek. What are you afraid of?”

 

“You smelled of fear.”

 

Stiles opened his mouth, closed it and frowned. If Derek could smell his fear from some distance, then Stiles didn’t want to know what else he could smell up close. He suddenly didn’t feel like boasting about his yesterday shower, considering all the sweating that occurred since this morning.

 

“Stiles?”

 

“Yes, uh… I’m fine. I wasn’t…” Had he been afraid? The tunnel issue bothered him, but he hadn’t realized it was to such an extent. “I’m worried, that’s all. No one hurt me.”

 

Derek just stared at him.

 

“Okay, you don’t believe me.” Stiles squirmed to free his arms and cupped Derek’s face with both hands, thumbs stroking his cheeks. “Trust me. I promise I’ll run away from the tiniest danger. Alright?”

 

“No.”

 

Yet Derek’s arms fell by his side. He wasn’t exactly pouting, but he set his lips in a way reminding Stiles of an upset child.

 

“No? Come on, Der.”

 

Carefully, Stiles slid his arms around the werewolf’s neck and hugged him, smiling as Derek nuzzled his hair.

 

“Trust me. I always manage to get out of trouble.”

 

 

***

 

On some level, Derek trusted Stiles; even his wolf did. But not for everything. Meaning he knew that he couldn’t trust Stiles with issues concerning _Stiles_ , especially when it came to that tunnel the miners argued about a few days ago. First they wanted Stiles to shut up –Derek saw in their eyes that they knew as much as the young man did there was an issue– but now, they grumbled between themselves, adjusting their helmets more than necessary. He felt their tension. As for Stiles, anxiety seemed to float around him like a cloud. He wouldn’t admit how scared he was, yet he advised Derek to stop as far away as possible from the tunnel during lunchbreak.

 

So when Stiles joined him, Derek wrapped an arm around him –shoulders, chest, waist, it didn’t matter– and listened to every little sound, tracked the slightest vibration. He had to be ready to shelter the little human. Even more so because Stiles didn’t pay attention to anything: from the second Derek brought their bodies close together, Stiles snuggled up to his side and _melted_. Derek didn’t know how else he could describe it. Stiles even fell asleep once. Derek didn’t mind. It made his wolf proud: their bonding was efficient.

 

“Derek? Big guuuy,” Stiles crooned, waving a piece of potato in the air to catch Derek’s attention.

 

Because aside from falling asleep with his head on Derek’s chest, Stiles had taken to hand-feeding him from time to time. It was out of necessity, really. Derek focused so much on his surroundings and on Stiles that he forgot about everything else. And with his arms constantly around the young man, this solution was easier.

 

“Eat,” Stiles declared, smirking.

 

Derek believed that it was some payback for the way he insisted Stiles always got a good amount of food –he needed it– but not only. Stiles wouldn’t look so pleased with himself, he wouldn’t preen if it were mere payback.

 

Parting with each other became harder, even for a few hours. It didn’t help that Stiles clung to Derek while he attempted to convince himself aloud that he should go, shouldn’t be late if he didn’t want Elis to be a pain all day.

 

“One more potato and I leave, okay? Ugh, I want to stay here, you have no idea. At least I don’t have to go outside for now.” Stiles chewed on his nails. “I’ll try to bring you some of my warm clothes tomorrow. I know you have your personal furnace,” he gestured at Derek’s whole body, “but the cook says he feels snow coming. I don’t know what’s coming, but we can be sure it won’t be a heatwave. I hate this place.”

 

Stiles stood up at the end of his little rant, mumbling and wiping dust away from his pants. No one would believe Derek, but in these moments, Stiles appeased him. He always did, however, his superfluous flailing, the way his features came to life with each emotion without hiding anything, all of this soothed Derek.

 

After an ultimate shrug, Stiles turned to him, his eyes widened and he grinned.

 

“Were you smiling at me, Der?”

 

Derek brought one hand to the corner of his mouth, then shook his head at his foolish reaction.

 

“No, no, you have the most amazing smile,” Stiles said, crouching in front of him, placing his fingers where Derek’s hand had been a second before. “Sure, it makes the fangs even more impressive but… yeah, I think I love it.”

 

Derek was going to smile at him again, concentrating so that it didn’t look like he wanted to bite Stiles, when his ears picked up a distant rumble, somewhere deep in the mine. Stiles raised his head, eyes wide, like a deer hearing a branch creaking.

 

“What…”

 

Another rumble, closer, too close, and suddenly the walls seemed to move around them.

 

“Shit!” Stiles yelled.

 

They simultaneously understood what happened but Stiles reacted faster. He swooped on Derek and pushed him on the ground, laying above him. The ground shook and the wagon rattled, its sound quickly covered by the roar of rock caving in. Derek could still hear Stiles' panicked breath in his ear. He heard screams too, coming from further up their tunnel, from the parallel one. They didn’t last. The rumble swallowed everything.

 

Then the vault crashed upon them. Or rather, it felt like this at that time. A part of their tunnel collapsed, whether towards the exit or deeper inside, Derek couldn’t tell. Rocks hit the wagon, which toppled over them. Stiles screamed but didn’t let go of Derek. The wagon weighed on them and Derek squirmed to get Stiles under him. He couldn’t. Everything shook too much, was too loud.

 

And it stopped almost as abruptly as it started. Derek opened his eyes –when had he closed them?– and for a while, he couldn’t see anything apart from dust floating in the air. Couldn’t hear anything except fragments of rocks falling from the vault and clinking on the ground. So there still was a vault. They had room to breathe and move.

 

Stiles groaned above him. Derek felt him push on his hands, which bracketed Derek’s head, and fall back on him. The lack of space, the weight on them, made his wolf grow restless. Derek wriggled and rolled on his side, managing to slide Stiles in the space between him and the fallen wagon. The little human didn’t move much. Derek growled, put his forearms and a knee on the wagon, and pushed. It didn’t move on his first attempt. Another push and it slipped backwards, bumping into rocks. Stiles startled at the loud sound, throwing his arms above his face and curling into Derek.

 

“All okay,” Derek mumbled, pushing Stiles’ dusty locks away from his forehead.

 

There wasn’t any wound Derek could see, but he wanted to snarl at Stiles for being so reckless. Covering Derek with his own body. Idiot. Derek could survive wounds that would kill Stiles within minutes.

 

“No, not okay, big guy.”

 

Stiles coughed into his hand. Derek hugged him close while he glanced around. The part of the tunnel leading outside had collapsed, as well as some of the right wall. Derek blinked at the vault through all the dust. The sooner they left, the better, but Stiles didn’t seem ready to get up yet. Derek nuzzled his cheek.

 

“If this is our afterlife, I swear I’m gonna scream,” Stiles groaned. He sat up, with Derek’s help, and cast a distraught look around them. “Are you okay, Der? All in one piece?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Great, then…” Stiles’ eyes scanned the area again. He crawled towards their lantern, which had fallen aside but thankfully wasn’t under the wall that had crumbled. “Let’s… shit, no.”

 

Derek followed his gaze, which led him to his own hands. In shackles. And linked to the wagon. He was so used to the wolfsbane prickling his skin that he had forgotten about the chains. But now he was stuck to his wagon, which had a twisted wheel, and he really didn’t want to stay imprisoned here because of these chains, and–

 

Stiles jumped in front of him and grabbed his hands, ignoring the claws that had appeared, to cradle them against his chest.

 

“Derek, stop, stop pulling, we’ll get rid of them. I promise. Just… don’t move too much, alright?” He nodded at the vault. “I’m not too confident about this. I need… where’s my pickaxe?”

 

Stiles slowly released Derek’s hands, picked the lantern up and pushed small rocks aside with his feet.

 

“Where is it? Come on…”

 

After another round of grumbling and fumbling among rocks and dust, Stiles turned to Derek with a winning smile, pickaxe in hand.

 

“Let’s do this fast.”

 

Stiles walked to the wagon, pulled on the chains until he found the locks –three of them– and crushed them with the pickaxe. Several times, with a lot of swearing. Eventually, they shattered and he tossed them aside with contempt.

 

“We’re getting out of here, big guy.”

 

Stiles put a light hand on Derek’s shoulder and pushed one of the chains down, as if he pushed the cowl of some piece of clothing to bare Derek’s skin. He watched Stiles delicately peeling the chain away, letting it fall like a dead snake on the ground.

 

“Looks better like this,” Stiles declared.

 

Derek snarled his approval and snatched the remaining chains away. He felt as light as a feather without them, except for those dangling from the shackles around his wrists. He roared and tried to pry the metal away. It was too thick. Old and a bit rusty, but still too solid for his weakened limbs. If he had his usual strength and no wolfsbane coating the metal, he would already be done with it.

 

“Well, I’ll guess we’ll have to go like this,” Stiles sighed.

 

“No.”

 

“Derek, if you couldn’t do it, I won’t get anywhere with my fragile human fingers.”

 

“Pickaxe,” Derek decided. Stiles gaped, glanced from the pickaxe to the shackles. “Do it.”

 

“Are you crazy?” Stiles hissed. “I’m not opening these with a pickaxe, I’ll just break your bones.”

 

Derek pushed the shackles under Stiles’ nose.

 

“I heal.”

 

The young man gave him a flat look and dropped the pickaxe.

 

“I’m not breaking your bones. We’ll find a way to open them outside.”

 

Then Derek would have to do it himself. Swiftly, he picked the tool up, knelt, laid his left hand on the ground and hit, blocking the sound of Stiles’ horrified shout. The shackle broke but Derek’s victory was short-lived. A sharp, burning pain erupted from his wrist –unsurprising, considering how the bone had cracked. He gritted his teeth around a scream, curling on himself. It would heal soon, this pain wouldn’t last.

 

“Oh my god, Derek.” Stiles fell on his knees next to him. “Let me see.”

 

Derek shook his head and squeezed Stiles’ leg with his good hand. He had a tiny hope this would be enough to reassure him.

 

“ _Let me see_ , you idiot.”

 

“You… you’re not physician.”

 

Derek concentrated and smiled, forcing his lips to curl up in a convincing way. Then, when Stiles let out an outraged gasp, his smile felt more genuine despite the pain.

 

“Now isn’t the right time to be a smartass, mister.”

 

No one could deny Stiles was sincerely worried, but Derek saw the exact moment he gave in, features relaxing a little.

 

“You’re lucky you have a pretty smile,” Stiles muttered.

 

Stiles sighed and without warning, he plastered his body to Derek, curling against his thigh. While still cradling his healing bones, the werewolf leant on him, hooking his chin on Stiles’ shoulder.

 

“I’m scared. I’m glad you’re with me.”

 

Derek lowered his face and breathed into Stiles’ neck. It was only a matter of seconds before the young man’s fingers buried themselves into his hair, pressing Derek’s head closer. The werewolf wondered if Stiles knew what it meant when he bared his neck like he just did. Derek’s wolf surely appreciated it.

 

They stayed like this until Derek’s wrist wasn’t sore anymore –hard to say how long in the dark tunnel. From time to time, they heard distant voices.

 

“We have to find a tunnel without too many miners in it. Or not a single one, that would be awesome,” Stiles declared, thinking aloud. “This way we’ll sneak you out. Oh, but we have to wait until you break your other wrist, I forgot. Silly me. Go on, proceed. I’ll just sit there and cringe.”

 

They had shuffled further down the tunnel, away from the piles of rock, and Stiles sat with his arms around his knees, shooting both Derek and the pickaxe dirty looks. As he flexed his fingers, Derek tried to think of what could appease him. Even though Stiles would get over it quickly, Derek didn’t like knowing he was upset. There was little he could do against collapsing tunnels and lethal dangers, but he wanted Stiles to feel better. And he couldn’t do anything. He bumped their shoulders together, lightly pushing Stiles.

 

“Don’t worry.”

 

“S’okay, big guy. You’re the one who’s going to writhe in pain, you don’t have to comfort me.”

 

Derek hesitated, then leant forward to brush his lips against Stiles’ cheek. It was warm, even under all the layers of dust. He didn’t press his mouth on the skin, afraid his fangs would graze it. Afraid of, maybe, scaring Stiles.

 

The miner raised his eyebrows, too surprised to remember he was annoyed. His grin seemed to illuminate the whole tunnel. Derek was tempted to do it again.

 

“Or you know,” Stiles chirped, “if you _really_ want to comfort me like this, we can work something out. Oh, or if _you_ need comfort, I can reciprocate. Enthusiastically.”

 

Derek chuckled and he was so unused to it that for a second, he thought the sound came from Stiles. Stiles who had this adoring look on his face, which Derek couldn’t quite understand. He liked it anyway. He let his mouth ghost over Stiles’ cheek before kissing it, firmer this time. Derek couldn’t explain what led him to do it. His wolf, maybe. Stiles, definitely. The fear of losing him, too. That fear always lingered, more or less, resurfacing every time Stiles coughed. It had reached its peak during the accident, without a doubt.

 

Derek drew back to check Stiles’ reaction. The young man rested his head on his knees.

 

“I suppose our bonding is doing well,” he murmured.

 

“Very well,” Derek approved.

 

He felt himself blushing under Stiles’ affectionate scrutiny. Looking down, he saw the pickaxe and remembered he still had one unpleasant task to achieve. He decided he would think of Stiles the whole time. Nothing else would distract him from the pain.

 

He proceeded faster than for his first wrist. Stiles winced and grimaced, yet he helped by holding Derek’s arm down. He held Derek afterwards, until he was ready to move.

 

“Stay close,” Stiles instructed as they left what remained of the tunnel. “There’s like, more than twenty miles of tunnels in this mine. You could get lost within minutes. Of course, I can’t guarantee _I_ won’t get us lost. But I know several exits.”

 

Stiles raised his lantern in front of them. It provided so little light Derek wondered how the young man would recognize one tunnel from another. Even in broad daylight it would be hard.

 

“I’m warning you big guy, we’re in for hours of fun.”

 

Derek let him take the lead. As it soon turned out, the mine was far more complex than he expected. Junctions, stairs, shortcuts –according to Stiles– from one tunnel to another. For a while they didn’t see anyone, although Derek could hear people clearing out the piles of rubble. Or rather, trying to.

 

At one point, Stiles stopped dead in his tracks, frantically pushing Derek’s chest so that he stepped backwards, and hiding the lantern behind him.

 

“Shit, miners,” he whispered. “We can’t go this way.”

 

He gripped Derek’s hand and hurried into the closest tunnel, perpendicular to the one they were in. They walked until they reached a new junction.

 

“With our luck, we could run into Elis,” Stiles sighed. “Can you picture this? Ugh. Okay, let’s find a new way…” He took a step in the tunnel going right, pursed his lips and turned to Derek. A grin spread on his face. “Let’s go left. There’s a closer exit. And something I want to show you.”

 

“Surprise?”

 

“Kind of. Nothing exceptional, just… nicer than the rest of this mine. The most beautiful part, if you want my opinion. Hope it didn’t collapse.”

 

Derek knew he was going to sound like an idiot, but he couldn’t help himself.

 

“You’re most beautiful.”

 

Stiles, who had taken a few steps into the tunnel, eyeing the vault suspiciously, glanced at him above his shoulder.

 

“Come here,” he said as he took Derek’s hand again with a fond smile. “Now I’m sure I won’t lose you in a tunnel, charmer.”

 

Derek pointed at his alpha eyes.

 

“Better eyesight.”

 

“Cheeky charmer,” Stiles chuckled.

 

They walked in comfortable silence. Derek had never been so deep into the mine. Despite his werewolf instincts, he wasn’t even sure he would manage to find his way back if needed. At some turns and junctions, Stiles paused as if he expected some miners to find them. It seemed most of them had already left, or headed elsewhere. Actually, Derek’s hearing confirmed it: most of the noise came from the opposite of where Stiles and he were. After a while, he stopped hearing them.

 

Which is why he noticed the sound of water trickling. Droplets, nothing a human ear could catch. After another minute of walking, Stiles shivered. The air turned moister.

 

“Almost there,” the young man whispered.

 

They climbed down a short staircase carved into the rock, the smell of water filling Derek’s nose with every new step, and entered a new tunnel. Stiles had lowered his lantern to keep the light at a minimum, therefore the werewolf couldn’t see anything more than a strange glimmering on the ground.

 

“Don’t move,” Stiles instructed. “I’ll be right there, just… wait.”

 

He walked backwards, hiding the flame inside the lantern with one hand, but it became clear that what Derek mistook for the ground was, in fact, something else. Stiles raised the lantern and all of a sudden, the vault of the tunnel behind him seemed to undulate.

 

“There was a flood last winter,” Stiles explained. “We didn’t manage to get all of the water out yet.”

 

Derek blinked at the reflection cast by the lantern on the vault. It was mesmerizing. Peaceful. Like small waves dancing on the rock, which now looked like the bed of a stream. He half-expected to see shadowy fish dart through the vault. Stiles crouched to pick pebbles and threw them into the water. Dozens, hundreds of black and golden circles reflected themselves on the vault.

 

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Stiles grinned. “Like a night sky.”

 

Derek approached him, without managing to tear his eyes away from the dancing lights. He stopped when Stiles threaded their fingers together.

 

“Makes you want to take a midnight bath,” Stiles laughed.

 

Derek’s eyes went back to him. He had been right: Stiles hadn’t lied, this place was beautiful, but not as much as him. Seeing him like this, with crinkles at the corner of his eyes because of his smile, head slightly thrown back, reminded Derek of how young Stiles was. Of all the time he could have, if he weren’t sick. Time Derek wouldn’t mind spending with him. The thought popped in his mind so suddenly that he suspected the suggestion came from his purring wolf. But it was true, he wouldn’t mind.

 

Derek glanced at Stiles’ neck. He didn’t have to die. He was strong and stubborn enough to survive the bite. Derek’s fangs tingled. No, not like this, even if his blood boiled at the idea of having Stiles as a part of his pack. His pack… Derek hoped it still existed. That his betas were safe in some remote place. Maybe they had managed to escape and run to his family’s territory. He doubted it, yet he hoped so.

 

“… but as I said, that’s freezing cold water, so you don’t want to jump in there. Good news, we won’t have to.”

 

Derek snapped to attention, but it was clear he had been staring into Stiles’ eyes for a while now, without reacting to his words. Stiles tilted his head, smirking.

 

“Here, take the lantern, big guy. We’re going to cross this tunnel.”

 

Stiles approached the edge of the water. The miners had reorganized the place so that the ground they stood on was higher than the flooded tunnel, basically turning it into a long pond. Bending a little, Derek noticed a small rowing boat. Stiles stabilized it and offered Derek his hand to help him.

 

“That’s the romantic part of our excursion,” he teased. “Since I’m a gentleman, you won’t have to row.”

 

Derek wasn’t sure he would have managed to row anyway. He was too busy staring at the vault, even when his neck muscles protested against the unholy position. Besides, Stiles handled the situation on his own. Sometimes Derek glanced at him, and even under the sleeves of his shirt, he could see Stiles’ muscles rolling. He was strong, in every sense of the word. Derek chewed on his lower lip, accidentally piercing his own flesh with his fangs. Yes, Stiles was strong. He could survive.

 

 

***

 

A part of Stiles feared that Derek would run away and disappear as soon as they stepped out of the mine. He would understand, of course, but it would be dangerous. Stiles worried for nothing though, because Derek didn’t leave his side. After exiting the mine into a wooded, empty area –Stiles had chosen this way for a reason– the werewolf stayed close enough to him that their arms constantly touched.

 

Stiles decided it was safer to go straight to his house. He would need Deaton at some point to help Derek to flee, but for now, he bet the physician worked at the mine. Stiles didn’t want to think of all the casualties. How many of the miners would end like his dad? Stiles wondered if he already knew about the accident.

 

Apparently, he did. Otherwise he wouldn’t be standing in the middle of their abandoned garden. Quickly, Stiles pulled Derek behind a large tree. Night was falling and his dad couldn’t see them, thanks to the bushes and trees invading the path leading Stiles and Derek to the house. However, Stiles favored cautiousness. He didn’t want Derek and his dad to jump at each other’s throats due to a misunderstanding.

 

“Derek, you’re going to meet my dad. He’s great, you’ll see, just a bit… Overprotective? And stressed. He won’t hurt you, but if he screams or freaks out, don’t worry. Everything’s under control.”

 

He took Derek’s hand and they left their hideout. The contact grounded Stiles and if his dad saw them like this, it would look less threatening. Stiles waved at him, groaning when his father jolted and limped towards them, heavily leaning on his walking stick. Then he winced as his father’s gaze fell on Derek.

 

“Dad,” Stiles called, walking faster. “It’s okay! It’s Derek!”

 

They stopped in front of the garden, stuck in that awkward moment where Stiles had to explain himself. To his surprise, his father crossed the short distance between them and hugged him to his chest, oblivious to the red eyes boring into him. This might be easier than Stiles expected.

 

“I was so worried,” his father breathed.

 

“So you decided you should wait outside in the cold? Dad, you know your leg’s going to bother you.”

 

“Enough talking about me.” His father’s ran his hands all over Stiles’ face and hair, as if to make sure he didn’t hide a wound somewhere. Once he was satisfied with his inspection, he turned to Derek. “So, this is…”

 

“Derek. You know, I told you about him a few times.”

 

“Every evening, you mean.”

 

Derek did that rumble-chuckle thing and Stiles’ cheeks started heating.

 

“Yeah, uh… yes. We need to hide him for a little while.”

 

His father considered them, probably preparing a long lecture on Stiles’ thoughtless behavior. Or not, since he waved at the house.

 

“Head inside. You both need to rest. And have a wash.”

 

And that was it. Just a few wary glances here and there, some questions about Derek’s alpha face, of course.

 

“He can’t really… I don’t know, turn it off, dad. They hurt him,” Stiles explained while Derek was in his bedroom, where Stiles had provided him with a basin of hot water. “Last time I saw Deaton, he said he got in touch with Derek’s family.” He lowered his voice. “I didn’t tell him yet, in case I couldn’t get him out of the mine. Who would have thought an accident would be useful…”

 

“Don’t go back,” his father blurted out, clutching Stiles’ arm. “Don’t go back to the mine.”

 

“I don’t have a choice.”

 

“Many tunnels collapsed. It’s too dangerous.”

 

“Dad…”

 

“I won’t allow you.”

 

Stiles threw his arms in the air.

 

“Dad, I’m tired. I’ll go see Curly. I’ll try to be quick, but can you settle Derek in my bed if he wants to sleep?”

 

“In your bed?”

 

“Please, dad. Lecture me tomorrow.”

 

His father ran a hand through his still dusty hair and leant to press a kiss on his forehead.

 

“I love you, kiddo.”

 

 

Stiles slid in Curly’s shack with relief. Tightening the blanket he had wrapped around his shoulders, he knelt in the straw next to the stretched out goat. She stared at him with her placid eyes. This was one the few things that would never change.

 

“Hi, Curly. Hi, my pretty.” While Stiles petted her silky neck, she flicked her ears and moved her head on his lap. “You have someone very important to meet. You’ll love him.”

 

Stiles turned his head left and right, stretching his neck. Rolled his tense shoulders. Stifled a cough to avoid startling Curly. He hadn’t realized until now how exhausted he was. He buried his face in his free hand, letting a sob fall past his lips. Stiles couldn’t remember a time he had been so scared. He wished it was as simple as his father said; just not going back to the mine. At least he wouldn’t have to go back to digging until they cleared out the tunnels, but… Stiles yawned. He didn’t want to think about it tonight. He felt so heavy.

 

“A few minutes,” he whispered, lying on his side next to Curly, head pillowed on a thick pile of straw. “Right, pretty girl?”

 

Stiles dozed off, fingers toying with Curly’s fleece, slower and slower. He might have to go back to his miner life, but Derek didn’t. Soon Derek would reunite with his pack, or family, however that worked. That’s what mattered, all that mattered…

 

He didn’t hear anyone coming in. He woke up when Curly raised her head, lightly pushing his shoulder in the process. Stiles’ initially planned to soothe her, but stilled with his arm in the air as he sensed a presence in the shack. Craning his neck, he had no trouble identifying the glowing red eyes.

 

“Derek,” he mumbled.

 

Stiles stretched his hand towards him, too sleepy to sit up. He was still aware enough to pet Curly, although the werewolf didn’t seem to panic her so much. She didn’t bat an eyelid when he laid behind Stiles and tentatively touched her nose. She smelled the werewolf’s fingers, then pushed into them for more scratching.

 

“Curly loves you,” Stiles declared, eyes fluttering close. Some distant part of his mind registered how Derek’s protective arm cradled his chest. “You should do some… some bonding with her. While I rest.” He yawned. “Just a little rest.”

 

“Sleep,” Derek replied, firm and soft. “Sleep, Stiles.”

 

 

***

 

Derek stayed with Stiles and his father for five days. On the first one, Stiles had headed back to work, against his father’s loud advice and Derek’s glaring. He came back two hours later, saying no one would work until decided otherwise. The accident was too serious for the authorities to let the Argents open the mine again. There were already rumors that an inspector built a solid case against them.

 

Derek appreciated his life at the small house. He loved the afternoons he spent with Stiles and Curly, the moments Stiles’ father ranted about his son when he couldn’t hear, telling Derek how worried Stiles sometimes made him, but how proud he was to be his father nonetheless. In particular, he enjoyed the parts where the man explained him Stiles would talk about Derek for hours, how he would smile all the time as he spoke. His father never talked about Stiles’ illness –Derek wasn’t sure he knew how serious it was.

 

On the sixth day, Stiles brought the physician to the house. He did his best to look happy, yet his face crumpled a bit every time he thought Derek didn’t see. Derek knew it had nothing to do with the way Deaton whispered some questions about Stiles’ health while his father was in another room. Stiles never looked so affected by his own health.

 

“Derek,” the physician said, finally turning to him. “You look better. Do you remember me?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Very well. Listen, I met your parents.”

 

Derek’s eyes widened. Could he trust the man? His heart didn’t indicate lying, but… He was a stranger, it could be a trap. Behind the man, Stiles nodded at Derek. He didn’t relax, but breathed more easily.

 

“Your pack didn’t die,” Deaton added. “They’re with your family. We can’t clear your name for now, it’s too soon to prove the Argents attacked you and set you up.”

 

Derek took a step back. The physician couldn’t know so many things. He couldn’t know about that day, the day that sent Derek to this place… Stiles darted by his side.

 

“He’s trustworthy, big guy.”

 

“I know several packs,” Deaton confirmed. “Not from the Hale territory –well, not until I met your mother– but around here. They helped me to track your family. What happened to you made some noise in the werewolf community.”

 

“I bet it did,” Stiles mumbled.

 

“Now, the important thing is that there’ll be a trial for the accident in the mine. The Argents ignored too many rules for too long.”

 

Judging from Stiles’ gasp, Derek guessed he wasn’t aware of the trial part.

 

“Rules including the use of werewolves. No one complained while they were the most powerful industry in our county, but today…” Deaton let out a content sigh. “The authorities seem ready to change their stance. So, although for now we have to stay discreet, I’m positive no one will bother you again.”

 

“Will they go to jail?” Stiles asked.

 

“I think so. We won’t be sure as long as the trial isn’t over. In the meantime, you’re going home, Derek. Tonight.”

 

Derek swayed on his feet, blinking. He needed them to slow down. If something seemed too good to be true, then usually that meant it _was_ too good to be true. Could he really go back to the pack he had pictured dead for so long?

 

“Can you leave us for a second?” Stiles whispered to Deaton.

 

“Take your time. It’s a lot to process.”

 

Gently, Stiles ushered Derek to the little chimney, making him sit down in front of it, stroking his arms.

 

“You’ll be fine, big guy. You won’t have to worry anymore.”

 

Derek closed his hands into fists to keep them from shaking.

 

“Tonight?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You said nothing.”

 

He didn’t want to sound so reproachful, yet it came out this way.

 

“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to say it and then disappoint you if nothing happened.”

 

“Leaving.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“But you?”

 

Stiles leant forward, pressing the heels of his hands onto his eyes.

 

“Please don’t make this harder, big guy.”

 

Stiles’ voice broke and he jumped to his feet, fleeing out of the house. Derek didn’t dare to follow him. Tonight. Knowing he would see his pack and family again… Derek didn’t allow himself to believe it, because his heart would explode with joy, yet at the same time, he didn’t want to leave Stiles. _Too much bonding_ , his wolf whispered. His wolf already knew what would happen; Derek just chose to deny it. Stiles was ill, he needed the bite. They needed each other.

 

Evening came and Stiles hadn’t come back inside. Derek knew he wasn’t far. He heard him sniffling and whispering to Curly.

 

Then Derek smelled _her_. Stiles’ dad startled when he pounced outside. She was there, a black wolf sitting between the trees. There were three pairs of golden eyes in the bushes behind her. It was real. His wolf howled, as torn as Derek. He had to leave with his own –he needed their presence, their help. He feared he would never be fully human again without them. But he couldn’t leave like this.

 

Derek headed to the shack. He found Stiles sitting in front of his goat, plucking straw out of her fleece. He hurried to wipe his reddened when he noticed Derek standing in the doorframe.

 

“You’re going.”

 

“I’ll come back.”

 

A new set of tears filled Stiles’ eyes and he rushed to Derek, throwing his arms around his neck.

 

“Shut up, big guy. Don’t say it.”

 

“I’ll come back,” Derek promised.

 

“No. I don’t want you to, do you hear me? Stay safe, away from this place. Don’t come back.”

 

Derek hugged him back and turned his face into Stiles’ neck. He wouldn’t repeat the words, although they made something tingle in his human side. Derek rumbled and wiped Stiles’ tears.

 

“I’ll miss you,” Stiles murmured, offering Derek one last, beautiful smile.

 

Derek wouldn’t repeat the words. But if Stiles was stubborn, he was worse.

 

 

***

 

Stiles didn’t come back to the mine, because the mine never reopened. However, he did go to the trial. Funny, that’s how he saw the Argent family for the first time in his life. He stared at them while he testified, along with other miners, explaining how their tunnels size didn’t comply with standards. Just like he stared into Elis’ eyes when he was asked about the treatment Derek Hale suffered.

 

Derek who wasn’t there. Stiles took comfort in knowing he was living somewhere far, happy with his pack, not feral anymore. Or perhaps not so far, Stiles had no way to check. Unless he asked Deaton and he didn’t want to. Now, Stiles probably was a part of Derek’s life the werewolf might want to forget. He could understand. He wondered if Derek knew about the trial, and that the Argents lost it.

 

At least Stiles had Curly, and the thought sometimes made him laugh. His dad too, of course. But being around him was painful these days –Stiles hated to see the anxious expression his dad tried to hide whenever Stiles was too pale or coughed too much. He had a classic strategy to escape the house in such cases.

 

“Dad, I’m going to feed Curly!”

 

The goat greeted him into the shack with a loud bleat. Everything was easy with her.

 

“Hello, you,” Stiles replied as he dropped a hay bale in front of her.

 

Most of the time, when he stayed in the shack, Stiles’ mind wandered back to the moments he had spent there with Derek. Then he berated himself for pining over events that happened months ago.

 

In his defense, Derek was hard to forget.

 

Leaving Curly alone while she ate –even the goat had to be tired of hearing Stiles talk about the werewolf– he attempted to distract himself by cleaning the shack. As always, it worked for about two minutes.

 

Then Curly let out a plaintive bleat, quite unlike her.

 

“What’s wrong, pretty?” Stiles asked, turning to her.

 

Except Curly had her mouth full of hay and was busy chewing, ignoring him completely. And then he heard another bleat, which didn’t come from her chewing mouth at all, but from the outside.

 

“Do you have a secret kid, Curly?” Stiles asked as he left the shack.

 

To end up nose to nose with an Angora kid, alone in front of the house.

 

“So you have a secret kid,” Stiles muttered, “or… hey, you, did you get lost?”

 

The kid let Stiles approach and pet it. Actually, it was more of a young goat, but it didn’t change Stiles’ issue: there was no reason for it to be here. In which world did Angora goats wander alone? Near his house?

 

“What are you doing here?” Stiles wondered, crouching next to the kid. It wasn’t even dirty.

 

“Hello.”

 

Spinning on his heels while crouching was a bad idea. Stiles fell in a graceless heap and barely avoided hitting the kid in the process. He looked up at the man standing a few steps away. This face… Stiles had never seen _this_ face before, but he knew this man. Perhaps he recognized him thanks to his square shoulders or black hair, or he just knew. It took all his willpower not to squeak.

 

“Derek?”

 

The man –werewolf– smiled. Stiles felt like his breath was punched out of his lungs.

 

“Stiles.”

 

Stiles laughed.

 

“Did you lose your kid while on a stroll?” he asked, voice hoarse.

 

Derek, with his sparkling gaze so different from his alpha eyes, his almost shy smile, chuckled and crouched in front of Stiles.

 

“The kid led me here, I believe.”

 

Stiles couldn’t hold it anymore. He wrapped his arms around Derek with enough momentum that the werewolf swayed.

 

“Didn’t I tell you to stay away?”

 

“You said so many things, I think I forgot that part,” Derek replied, pressing Stiles against his chest.

 

“Good.”

 

Stiles planned to stay huddled like this, warming each other in the chilly spring morning, until the end of the day, but the kid butted its way between them with its head and trotted towards the shack.

 

“So? Did you come all this way to offer me a goat? It’s really sweet. Curly will love having a new companion.”

 

“What about giving her ten more companions? Or fifteen?”

 

Stiles narrowed his eyes at Derek. Derek. He still needed time to get used to this new face.

 

“You’d better not joke about this, big guy. I’m very serious when it comes to goats.”

 

Derek’s calm, pleased expression didn’t change.

 

“And I’m very serious about offering goats.”

 

“Okay so, does it mean you offer me the goats and… what, go away?”

 

Derek groaned and punched his arm. Not a punch, not exactly. This was closer to a little push, in case Stiles might break. The young man giggled.

 

“Don’t play dumb. You could come with me. And the goats too, of course.”

 

Stiles raised an eyebrow.

 

“I have a dad who can’t stay alone.”

 

“Bring your dad.”

 

“Oh good, you have an answer for everything.”

 

“I planned this for a long time.”

 

“Maybe you’ll tire of me.”

 

“My werewolf instinct disagrees with you.”

 

“I…” Stiles didn’t want to find a reason to push Derek away. He wanted the werewolf to be sure he knew what he was getting himself into. “I have an incurable disease.”

 

Derek nodded as he threaded his fingers through Stiles’ hair.

 

“Some parts of my days in the mine are… hazy, but I know I made an offer back then. In my rough, werewolf way. It still stands.”

 

“What if it doesn’t work? What if I scare the goats once I’m a werewolf? Or if your pack doesn’t like me? Or…”

 

“Stiles, stop. The goats won’t be afraid. My pack was ready to kidnap you, because it seems I’m… not funny to live with when I’m brooding.” Derek scrunched up his nose, shaking his head at whoever said that. “And you’re strong. You’ll survive the bite.”

 

“Fine, still–”

 

The front door opened suddenly and his father was there, pointing his cane at both of them. Derek’s new appearance didn’t seem to faze him at all.

 

“Stiles, he’s right. Stop. Or if you want to argue, and I know you’ll keep doing that for hours, come inside. So you and Derek will be able to bicker in a warm place, with warm food.”

 

Stiles glanced from Derek to his father before stopping on Derek.

 

“Okay, but why do you already have my dad on your side?”

 

“Stiles,” they sighed in perfect unison.

 

His father was right, he kept arguing. He still agreed to the bite in the end. Because between many years of bonding, or whatever came after that, with Derek, and years of coughing his lungs out, Stiles didn’t hesitate. However, he set several conditions. Essential ones, despite Derek’s eye rolling and moaning about Stiles overthinking the whole situation. Like meeting Derek’s pack –Stiles didn’t grasp all the specifics yet, but it seemed the pack counted three betas– and his family, which included dozens of aunts, uncles and siblings (perhaps Stiles exaggerated that part). Then making sure they didn’t start hating him after a month. Bringing his dad with him if he moved to Derek’s place. Having a job. Silly as it sounded, Stiles didn’t want Derek to offer him goats and then… do nothing.

 

“I have a large family who knows a lot of people,” Derek sighed. “You’ll make them plenty of warm clothes.”

 

“Werewolves,” Stiles pointed out. “You don’t really need warm clothes.”

 

“Doesn’t mean we don’t like them.”

 

Also, Stiles suggested –when his dad wasn’t around– they didn’t plan anything about the bite. It would feel better in the heat of the moment, whatever that moment was. Stiles had many ideas in this regard.

 

 

***

 

 

Derek ran his hands down Stiles’ sides. He wanted to say Stiles was healthier since he and his dad joined the Hale family, yet it wasn’t true –for now. He certainly was happy, though. Demonstrative as ever, writhing and whining under Derek’s weight.

 

“Derek,” he panted, “Der…”

 

The werewolf licked Stiles’ sweaty shoulder and snaked a hand under his jaw to turn his face towards him.

 

“What?” he breathed against the young man’s mouth.

 

“My knees… gonna give out. Oh god.”

 

Derek laughed and wrapped his arm around Stiles’ waist, just in case.

 

“You insisted for round two,” Derek reminded him. “And on your minimal refractory period.”

 

“I still do. I…” Derek snapped his hips upwards and Stiles’ voice trailed into a long, jerky moan. “My cock is totally… _ah_ , up to it. Not my knees. Traitors.”

 

Derek slowed his thrusts to tiny rolls of his hips.

 

“How do you want to do it?” he whispered, biting the shell of Stiles’ ear.

 

In response, Stiles craned his neck to kiss Derek and reached back for him, pressing his palm on Derek’s hips and stopping their regular back and forth movement. Pupils blown, he stared at Derek as he pulled off his cock, inch by inch. Bit his lips and raised his chin to escape the kiss the werewolf tried to steal. Stiles grinned as he clenched around the tip of Derek’s cock, pushing back a bit, then completely slipped off it to roll on his back. He planted his feet flat on the mattress, legs spread.

 

Derek wasn’t one to turn an invitation down. He slid two fingers inside of Stiles, uselessly checking he was loose enough, angling them left and right, taking his time. Stiles spread his arms above his head in a nonchalant posture, but his sharp eyes zeroing in on Derek didn’t match his attitude.

 

“Something wrong?” Derek chuckled, curling his fingers upwards and brushing them on _this spot_.

 

Stiles bit back a moan at the last second; Derek heard it die in his throat before it got too loud, but he couldn’t keep from arching off the bed. The werewolf sucked the sensitive skin of his bared throat.

 

“I thought someone liked teasing,” Derek murmured.

 

“Oh yeah,” Stiles breathed, “and someone’s gonna do it again. Can’t learn their lesson.”

 

Despite himself and his leaking cock, Derek paused to admire the cheeky smirk he loved so much. Stiles’ eyelids fluttered and he pressed his palms on Derek’s back to bring him closer, hands as soft as if he spread a healing balm on his skin. Derek had thought about this tenderness a lot while his family helped him to regain his human consciousness. Sometimes, in the dark of night, he had felt ghosts of Stiles' fingertips running from his shoulders to his wrists. Or he had dreamt it.

 

Today it wasn’t a dream anymore.

 

Stiles bucked under him, raising his hips closer to the tip of Derek’s cock, mewling in frustration. The werewolf gave in with a warm laugh and slid back inside, stilling him with one hand on his stomach. Then he lowered his body until their chests were pressed flush together, their hands joined above Stiles’ head. Derek went for long, slow thrusts; the way Stiles liked most these days.

 

“Derek…”

 

Stiles quivered beneath him, straining to keep from thrusting back on his cock. He was close. Derek felt it as Stiles tightened around him, less and less coordinately. He heard it in his breathless voice.

 

“Derek, now.”

 

Stiles put a hand behind Derek’s head and guided it down until the werewolf mouthed at his collarbone.

 

“Here…” Stiles whispered, lips brushing Derek’s hair. “Please.”

 

Only then Derek understood what he was talking about. He froze for a few seconds. Took a deep breath. His heart beat harder than a drum, in rhythm with his wolf’s joyous yips. Stiles asked, finally. Unwanted apprehension crept up Derek’s spine. No. He had always believed the bite would take, promised it to Stiles. He couldn’t back away now.

 

“Here?” Derek echoed, kissing the smooth collarbone.

 

“Yes. Yes.”

 

Derek let his fangs drop. Not fully, just the length needed to pierce Stiles’ skin properly. First he licked the skin while rolling their hips together. After that, he grabbed Stiles’ cock, stroked it a few times and when he felt the body under him shudder harder than before, he sunk his fangs into the warm flesh. A punched out exclamation fell from Stiles’ lips and he clutched Derek’s hair. The werewolf tightened his jaws at the same time he tugged on Stiles’ cock, and suddenly the young man spasmed with a cry, coming all over their stomachs.

 

“S-stay,” Stiles babbled when Derek began to pull out. “Please.”

 

Derek tried not to pound inside of him and focused on lapping the blood trickling down the bite mark.

 

“Am I… am I your mate now?” Stiles whispered.

 

Eyelids heavy, lips flush, he stroked Derek’s sweaty hair backwards as he spurred him on with tiny pushes of his hips.

 

“Always were,” Derek growled, his wolf slightly taking over.

 

Stiles moaned in approval, throwing his head back, and this sight added to the bite, to the bond forging between them, to his silky thighs holding Derek’s sides, all of this pushed Derek over the edge, his release almost painful. He sneaked a hand under Stiles’ ass, massaging its firm flesh as his cock finally softened.

 

“A bit more,” Stiles whined as Derek moved to pull out again.

 

Derek kissed his stubbly jaw, wolf purring. His fingers ghosted over the mark on Stiles’ collarbone.

 

“Fine, a bit more. Does it hurt?”

 

“Tingles. Feels good, mostly. How do we know it worked?”

 

“If your body rejects it…” Derek snarled before he could stop himself. He couldn’t picture a world where the bite wouldn’t take. “We’ll know soon. Otherwise…”

 

“Otherwise you’re stuck with me and my goats for… well, forever.”

 

Derek pecked his forehead and carefully slid Stiles off his cock, then settled him on his side and cradled him against his chest.

 

“I do hope so,” he replied. “I want a lifetime of warm socks and goats bleating around the house.”

 

 

***

 

 

At daybreak, Derek woke up to a pair of mischievous golden eyes.


End file.
